


The Rise of Fen'Namas

by Mithrakana



Series: The Chronicles of Fen'Namas [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cat's Out of the Bag, Cole Falls in Love, Cole Learns Man Stuff, Colemance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fall of Elvhenan, Fen'Harel Conflicted, Fen'Harel Misunderstood, Genocide, Happily Ever After...Sorta, Just Might Soothe the Jilting, Not Canon Compliant, One Big Happy Family, Rebellion in Arlathan, Sexual Content, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 88,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrakana/pseuds/Mithrakana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the object of his affections, a woman indomitably brave, trembles prostrate in the grass and entreats him as the god he is, Fen'Harel must make a choice:  To run and hide, to stay and love, to kill and walk away.</p><p> Also, Colemance.</p><p><i>Attention fellow erotica hounds: Chapters are earmarked for physical romance between pairings. Intensity of content varies widely.</i><br/> <br/>Una/Solas: *<br/>Veyla/Cole:  °</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dress for Sleet

The Inquisitor was late to breakfast that morning.

In spite of efforts towards unreddened eyes and uncrumpled clothing, her exhaustion was apparent.  Her people noticed, but none expressed concern with more than silent nods of understanding, perhaps a hesitant “good morning.”  They were all accustomed to seeing her tired.  Shit, they were all accustomed to _being_ as tired as she looked.

She settled in her usual spot on one of many long benches in the bustling mess.  Una preferred the camaraderie of shared meals, and encouraged her entourage to dine en masse.  If discussion of Inquisition business was on the menu, Solas invariably joined them.  Otherwise, the Fademancer did not attend breakfast for personal reasons (mostly concerning his lackadaisical morning temperament.) His empty seat, which drew no attention from the others, burned in her like a cancer.

Memories flashed through her heart.  An impromptu late breakfast at his book-cluttered table. They speculated together on details of ancient history, he explained the delicate procedure of mixing metallic paints. Slate blue flowers wet with dew that _nearly_ matched his eyes, gathered for her pleasure.  Her heart thrilling at the slightest brush of bare feet below.  The way he picked bits from his biscuit like a child. The way his face creased and teeth shone when he laughed uproariously, listening to her postulations on potato farming in the sky.

A deep sigh as she steeled herself, scowling.  She tucked in with the rest.

“Hey boss, what’s with your face? You trying to get ugly like me?”  The Iron Bull asked, ever blunt, before shoveling a gargantuan bite of food in his gullet.  He carried his own jumbo sized utensils to meals, a perpetual source of mealtime mirth. Admonishing glares at the Qunari gave way to quizzical stares in her direction. This question had apparently been on everyone’s mind.

She was too tired to summon a witty response, so she stuck to the truth. Another policy of hers, being honest with her people.  “Solas explained that the Vallaslin are a vestige of slavery.  I asked him to remove them for me.”

“Huh.  He sure knows a lot!  Why does Fancy Pants care about all that old shit?  I thought your face tats were _badass_.”  The Iron Bull grunted as he consumed the remnants of his breakfast and rose from the table.  “See you around, boss.  You too, Missy!”  He slapped Josephine on the back as he walked away, setting the group to laughter.  The Iron Bull always insisted on sitting next to Lady Montilyet at meals. For all of her diplomacy, she could not express her dismay.

Una smirked to herself as she nibbled her eggs.

There were follow-up questions. How did he do it, was it painful, do you miss the Vallaslin, what will your Keeper say.  She got through breakfast, heard some mission updates, ate too much honey, laughed at some jokes. 

As she stood to leave, she addressed Varric with the voice of fatigue. “Varric, please fetch Cole and Solas.  Meet me at the waypoint in one quarter of an hour.”

Varric’s eyebrows jumped on his face, taken aback by the short notice. He slowly followed suit, standing with his hands on the tabletop.  “Geez, Goldy.  You sure you don’t need some rest first?  Give your face a day to get used to itself? Let your breakfast settle?”

She spoke with her back to him as she made for her chambers, unusually curt with one of her closest companions.  Her deep velvet voice carried with ease over the hum of the emptying dining hall. “Storm Coast, Varric. Dress for sleet, it gets cold this time of year. Fifteen minutes.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed as they watched her leave, his arms folding at his chest. “Huh. Someone’s cranky today.”


	2. If Only We Will Dream

A gentle smile at the state of her room, much changed from when she left it.  The bed she’d spent the merciless night writhing in neatly made, her room tidy, her wash basin steaming with hot water. 

Una was touched every morning by the efforts of the small chambermaid staff who served the officers of the Inquisition.  Imagine, traveling into this icy wilderness just to serve, to make the Inquisitor’s bed for her so she doesn’t take rest in crumpled sheets.  She thanked her willing attendants with such frequency as to be bothersome, and she returned from her travels with fine gifts for them whenever she could. 

With purposeful strides to the wash basin, the Inquisitor disrobed for a hasty bird bath.  She was nauseous with tired already, had no idea how much worse it would get.  Splashing hot water on her face, Una wondered what the chambermaids thought about her messy bed this morning. 

The girls, a constant presence throughout Skyhold, knew the Inquisitor was close with Solas.  They had seen the evening soporific tea parties, the afternoon distractions with Elven table games in the garden, heard the way he made her laugh.  The boldest of them bet Una a steak dinner that Solas had no belly button.

One afternoon, as whispered balcony conference led to sweet kiss and warm embrace, Una’s eye caught the tails of a chambermaid’s skirts disappearing down her stairs.  Solas left immediately afterwards, as he always did after even the smallest act of passion.  It was like courting a spooky stray cat.

Did her chamber girls imagine the bed rent by passionate love-making?  That their Inquisitor’s prude lover had finally lost his steely resolve, left to break down and worship her body with a starving fervor?  Linens soaked not with tears, but with sweat.  Writhing into the morning hours not in heart’s agony, but in sheer ecstasy.  The chill night air split not with her sobs, but with their moans of passion and his frantic ancient Elvish prayers, rushed and breathless and desperate with need. _Worshipping_ her. Worshipping her with a voracious reverence no other in Thedas could comprehend.

As she washed herself, Una imagined the girls giggling together as they changed her sheets. They were surely overwhelmed with energetic joy and scandal at their leader’s sweet conquest, carrying on like pullets at feeding time.  They hushed one another when they imagined someone would overhear their gossip (for all their fussing, her girls were tight-lipped against spreading rumors).  Wondering where the lovers were now, wondering how soon it would happen again.  Wondering if it was still happening _right now_ , only in _his_ room, or in the wilderness, or the larder perhaps, and how endowed was he, oh _surely_. Is there magic for that, and is there magic for _this_ , and oh how wonderful must it be to be our Inquisitor and have a mysterious lover! Such an unknowable man, unknowable to all but her, the most powerful woman in all the world.

_Unknowable. I will know you, Solas._

Donning layer upon layer, watching herself in that hand carved dressing mirror as she fastened the bust of her corselet.  Fingers roamed floor-length supple leather, hand tooled in exquisite detail, the color of pale earthen clay.  She’d had one made the same for him, the underrobes an emerald green, the leather a steely gray that made his eyes cold and beautiful.

It was then she decided to forego sleep indefinitely.

 _Venuth_ was there, in the bottom drawer of her stately desk.  A draught she’d commissioned early on, ancient formula scrawled in an old tome.  A bookworm, Una was always searching for new magic to bolster her skills as Inquisitor. 

Small silver vials glinting in a box, one already empty.  The squeak of the stopper gave her heart pause: a begging wish for sleep.  He may come to us, he may right this, explain it all, if only we will dream.

She quaffed the bitter stuff, slamming the drawer.  Snatched her staff from its resting place by her mirror, umber glimmering at her touch.

_He will do no such thing._


	3. For Her Sake, and for His

Today, he worshipped in the blazing sun.  She loved the heat, he watched her love it, charging up rocky ridges with the flowing grace of a rare beast, the hot stone surely scalding the flesh of her hands the way it did his.  Her golden hair was radiant in this hot light, a torment to him. How long it must be, the way that tightly braided crown circled her lovely head.  Her people never wore their hair so long, not like the Elves of old.  Unique, beautiful, heartbreaking.  He followed, and in spite of himself, _oh,_ how he worshipped her.

He was thankful that the others found the heat oppressive.  There was no speaking today.  In truth, there had not been much speaking as of late.  He used to admire her social efforts with her hand-picked menagerie, the earnest conversations she could have with men and women of all races from all walks of life.  She was distant now, and urgency guided every step she took.  He found he admired that, too.

He had feared his parting from her would affect her resolve, that in her grief the weight on her shoulders would prove too much.   Solas could not have been more wrong, and was ashamed of himself for thinking her so frail.  Had he not been drawn to her strength and determination?  She left no trail of sopping frilly handkerchiefs, but a trail of forged alliances, judgments and corpses.  Una had always been determined.  In the past weeks, she had been _relentless_.

So relentless in fact, she led a party into the field the very morning after he broke both their hearts, out in the freezing rain.  She couldn’t have slept.  Her eyes were red that day, her jaw clenched tight, but she carried on as if nothing had happened.  He imagined on that cold morning that she requested his presence to punish him in his grief, forcing him to gaze upon the terribly lovely vision he forsook but hours before.  He also knew he deserved it, and felt at the same time unworthy of her presence.

That had been weeks ago.  Fen’Harel was not accustomed to suffering petty emotions, but he could not shake this woman from his head or his heart.  Her name on the lips of others brought him grief.   Even the spirits of the Fade offered him little comfort, and he had taken to wandering alone, fighting the urge to trespass on her dreams, reminding himself that he would not lie and cheat his way back into her arms although every fiber of his being screamed at him to do so.  He knew he should have never indulged his honest want of her softness, for her sake and for his. 

 _You have done it, fool_ , _and you cannot take it back._


	4. Only Glows for This

As weeks passed, her tormented heart found no peace.  For her crew, and indeed for her, life continued much in the same way – if you could call it that, life – murders, fighting, politics, wet and weary days spent in the field.  The change was small to a few, massive to two, and most were none the wiser.

Nights were spent in study, pouring over books acquired through her consult on archaic magic – ah, the perks of being Inquisitor.  Una boasted the best consult in Thedas for everything she fancied.  Even now a three-tome set from Tevinter, _Regarding the Application of Magicks for the Extraction of Truth_ _from Unwilling Parties_ , sat in dusty brilliance on her desk.  She was the Inquisitor, after all, and truth was her specialty.  She had read them all, and intended to use it.

The war council urged her to take a break today, assuring her everything was under control. “The calm before the storm,” Leliana had called it.  Una resisted, terrified of where her thoughts would take her.  But, now that they mentioned it, a hot bath did sound _quite_ lovely.

Una routinely took great pleasure in tending her long golden hair and milky skin; she would work until she shone like flax on a summer breeze.  The Inquisitor even perfumed herself. For all her abhorrence of the courtly life, she certainly lit up when she discovered the purveyor of fine toiletries in Val Royeaux. 

Only Varric dared tease her openly on occasions when he visited her quarters to find her barefoot with her hair flowing, smelling of jasmine.  He would call her Goldy the Elf Queen, she would laugh at him and get down to business strategizing, or whatever else the day’s business called for.  A leader so scented and fine one moment, covered in gore the next. 

Today, she performed her thorough ablutions in a trance, standing before the mirror in a dressing gown of fur and silk.  She watched her own expressionless face, nimble fingers working at a damp tangle.  A music box open on her desk played a tune as sweet as the sunshine pouring onto her back from the balcony.  The little songbirds on the ramparts were singing today.  To herself, she called them hers.

So rare and precious, these sunny easy days.

Things must be getting better.  This was the longest she had held up without crying, seeing herself.  It was not the missing Vallaslin that wounded her.  On the contrary, she was glad to have them gone, and had been meaning to discuss the spell with Solas.  Could it be learned?  She intended to share this spell with her people, educate them about the truth.  Una valued truth over all things, and had a hope that her people would listen. Let the marks be gone!  At the very least, they could stop branding their children at coming of age.

Something about the slowing of her music box, then.  Or maybe it was the delicate clink of her perfume bottle as she plucked it from her bedside table to scent her newly unmatted hair.  Or perhaps having taken note that the tears were not coming undid her.  Whatever the cause, come they did, unbidden and with a fierce despair, her face contorting in the mirror as hot wet salt ran down her face and her lips trembled.  A passing memory of his face, the soft and loving way he smiled when he freed her – yes, that had been what did it.

She had tried denying these tears countless times since he rejected her.  She felt scorn, for a time.  How _weak_ was she, weeping in her room like a child over this man? How naïve was she, falling prey to the fleeting kisses of this deceitful stray cat who played at killing with her heart like a baby bird in the yard?

She had since learned that no self-admonishment would stop the damn’d tears.  This heartbreak was like a chronic and debilitating disease, the good days defined by her strength to deny how she felt, the bad days all the same as one another while somehow each was the worst.  To finish her grooming in spite of her tears, to keep them hidden from those who trusted in her strength, to persevere in her defiance of sleep; these were the only victories she had found to claim.

The tear-addled Inquisitor sensed a movement in her mirror.  Turning around, she saw Cole standing in the middle of the room, his messy head bowed in sadness. She smiled with tears on her face as purposeful strides carried her to embrace the young man, holding his innocent cheek against her breast.  He never used to hold her in return, but now he did, and she loved it. She could tell he enjoyed their hugs as much as she.  Maybe he tolerated her mothering because he knew it made her feel better.  No one else would have believed it.

“Sweet thing!  I am happy to see you.” She sniffed and chuckled hoarsely, her weeping ebbing for joy of his gentle company.  “How long have you been standing there, listening to me cry?”

“For weeks,” he said in a far-away voice, forlorn and despairing, “and I can’t fix it.  I fix everyone, but I can’t fix you. I _want_ to. You’re so good.”

She reached up to dry her face with her sleeve, laughing at him and taking his face in her hands. “Cole, Solas is right.  You can’t fix this for either of us.  Come and sit, dear.  I remember now, I said I’d cut your hair today, didn’t I?  Come, come out on the balcony in the sunshine. I’ll fetch a chair.”

She rushed around, happy to busy herself, happy for his company.  Happy to be doing something that did not involve The Inquisition.  Cole wound her music box back up as far as it would go before following her outside. “Thank you, I have never had a haircut.  You keep saying it won’t hurt.  It’s attached.  Music is…strange.” 

He took a seat obediently, although there was doubt in his voice about the nature of this transaction.  She gingerly removed his flapping hat, kissing his greasy forehead. “Haircuts do not hurt. You must let me teach you to care for your body, Cole.  You are a sweet boy, but you smell of Halla. You should bathe more often. Do you know how to wash your clothes?”

He sat unoffended, his eyes trailing to watch her as she fussed around him, parting his hair this way and that, flashing little scissors around. 

“You don’t, though, so why should I?”

“I don’t what?” She clucked at him, hands on her hips. “I don’t _bathe?”_

“Cut your hair. It’s more than mine.”  She shook her head laughing, finding it easier not to answer him.  His dingy blonde hair started falling.  One of her songbirds came hopping on the edge of the balcony.  This boasting feathered trend-setter was no stranger to the splendiferous booty borne of haircuts! He went straight for the first trimmings to hit the ground. Cole noticed but did not understand.

“It’s beautiful.”

“What? Oh, you mean my bird! They’re nesting.  He’ll use your hair to build a home for his family.  You see, your haircut is helping my birds.”  She said, paying him half-attention as she stooped to eye his hair level with his ears.

“No.  I mean, it is, I guess, but - your hair. Maybe that’s why he loves you. He doesn’t have any.”

Another of those times when it was best to not respond.  Her mood darkened, and he noticed.  The music box prevailed for a time.

“I’m almost finished, Cole.  We’ll wash it after this, and I have some rose water for your pimples. You really must fix those, it is an unfortunate truth of the world that people will be kinder to you.”  She tossed his hair roughly with her fingers on his greasy scalp, sending clippings flying into his eyes.  He shook his head, blinking hard, his hands coming up to paw at his eyelids, air sucked through his teeth with a hiss.  She apologized and he relaxed, closing his eyes to ramble at her as he enjoyed the very human pleasure of her fingers in his hair.

“I have asked Solas why he does, but he will not speak of you.  He…his soul is so _old_ , like Abelas but even more, muted like him, but bigger.  Solas thinks of you, his soul goes howling, and it’s so _loud_.  It doesn’t make sense, such a muted soul, it wants so much, but only glows for this.”

She stood still as a statue in front of Cole, looking down on him with an intensity typically spared for wayward ancient magistrates.  Her truth-seeking face, and she would stop at nothing.  He gasped and leaned back away from her. Her voice was deep and firm.

“What do you _mean_ , his soul is old? What does that mean, Cole?”

“I can’t – I made a mistake!” He stumbled over his words as he lifted his hand to erase the immediate past from her memory.  In a flash she stayed his hand, bringing up a barrier of her own to prevent his success.  Her expression melted to one of hurt and confusion.

“ _Cole_ , you promised me you’d never-“

He screamed his words, his voice cracking and hoarse like a pubescent boy, terrified. “Let me! You have to let me! You can’t – I made a mistake!” The chair toppled as Cole stumbled to his feet and backed away from her, his knuckles whitening as he clutched and pulled his new haircut.

“It’s okay! Cole, _please_ calm down!” She held her hands up in a motion bidding him to stop.  The green barrier still shimmered in her vision.  Even as she tried to comfort her friend, her mind was in another place, a fusillade of thoughts.  _Gods, but I am blind and a fool. Solas is Elvhen. The fadewalking – a dream mage? Older than Abelas…_

“No, no-no-no, no, don’t think that! I have to go. You are both my, he’ll – he’ll be so angry!”  He ran from the room swift as a halla, knocking her music box from her desk in his frenzy, slamming the door. 

“Cole, _wait!_ Don’t go! Your hat... _Fenedhis!_ Don’t _leave_ me! _FENEDHIS!_ ” She cursed at the top of her lungs alone on the balcony for all of Skyhold to hear.  Fuming, she kicked the overturned chair and stubbed her toe with a yell.  She stormed back into her quarters and paced in a rage she did not understand, flinging the books from her desk at the wall with furious snarls. 

She then set to work taking out weeks of grief and rage on her living space.


	5. No Concern of Mine

Her raging destruction could be heard from the Great Hall.  Josephine, oblivious to the weight of her actions, knocked hurriedly at the door to Solas’ day quarters.  He answered with a raised eyebrow.  What is that box under her arm?  What is that _sound_? “Lady Montilyet.  What is happening?  Has the Inquisition taken to branding cattle in the attic?”

Unamused, Josephine gestured down the hall as she whispered urgently up at him. “She won’t answer her door, we’ve never seen her like this and don’t know what to do. She has been so quiet lately, we are all worried for her.  We agreed she may listen to you, can you please do _something_?”

Confusion and impatience barely altered the landscape of his serene face as she spoke.  His gaze followed her gesture down the hall. “Who do you mean by ‘she’? Is that-…” A loud SLAM! Did she just _throw_ her bed at the wall? He scoffed in quiet disbelief.  “The _Inquisitor_?”

 _“Yes,_ ” Josephine pleaded, “Please Solas, reason with her, she won’t answer any of us!”

Solas listened to the commotion for a moment longer before he shook his head, looking back at her sternly. “Lady Montilyet, I am here to advise your people on the Fade, and to support the Inquisitor in the field when she sees fit to have me.  Her private affairs are no concern of mine.  Furthermore, I imagine she would be just as offended as I that her war council assumes our pointed ears mean I am more apt to bring her comfort.”  Flabbergasted, her mouth hanging open. “Good day, Lady Montilyet. Do not disturb me again.” 

He closed the door on her protests and apologies, exhaling sharply through his nose.  He stood with his hand on the door, staring up in the direction of Una’s bed chamber, his face a picture of concern and longing.  Sharp ears now held the sounds he had not noticed before. He felt the gentlest twangs in the veil as she unleashed deadly talents in a sloppy rage.

A heavy sigh.  His hand slid from door to wall as he paced the perimeter of his room with the slow deliberation of an intelligent animal caged, slender fingertips dragging on textured plaster.  The ritual calmed him, drew him to this round space – the wolf in him was so unfond of corners, ceilings, buildings.

He found himself at the table in the middle of the room then, empty teacup in hand.  He gently traced its rim with his finger, remembering.  She came knocking late that evening, found him painting, unable to sleep.  The candlelight, she said, gave him away.  He could not share his troubles, though she invited them and he wished to. 

A gift.  Soporific tea, the likes of which he had never heard of, she made it just for him.  Her dark green eyes, _mercy_ , like moss on a stone undisturbed for all time, shining with delight to share something new with him.  She did not brag, but he knew from the diffuse geography of named ingredients the love of it.

Hot, spicy, sweet, a cinnamon taste that conjured images of a warm hearth.  Crisp little cookies, too, they’d shared them both.  Her coy smile when he returned his teacup to its saucer, strong arms snaking at her waist, broad shoulders leaning down to kiss her.  The freshness of her mouth, hot with tea.

Piercing blue eyes slid closed as he upturned the teacup onto its saucer, bowing his melancholy head.  Ears pricked. Her raging had stopped. 


	6. If I Sleep with You Tonight

“You went to _Chuckles_? And I thought you were our diplomat! Are you _daft?_ ” Varric rushed down the hall with purpose, Josephine gasping to keep up with him.  “And _knocking_?  Have you ever seen a strong woman in a rage before?  You’re losing your edge with people, Josephine.  I told you, you’re a fool for making Goldy take a break.”

“She obviously needed one!  Varric, wait! Take this, it just came for her.  A gift from the Brewer’s Guild in Orzammar, apparently she helped one of their senior merchants on the road.”

Varric whistled low as he snatched the wooden box from her, turning on his heels to call over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs. “Sounds like something she’d do! Shame she’ll never taste it!  You’re a fool to give me this, too, sweet cheeks!”

“Andraste have mercy, these _people_ ,” Josephine breathed, glowering up the stairs for a moment before she stalked back into her office.

\---

Varric slowly mounted the final steps to find Una sitting on the floor amidst a sea of kindling and paper.  Her face was downcast, golden hair cascading all around her.

Her voice was breathless. “Varric. Did you-…” A faint laugh. “You picked my lock. I like that.”

“Damn right I did!  Hey, Goldy.  Fashionably late, as always.  Looks like the party’s over.  Brought you somethin’.”  He picked his way through the mess on the floor and set the box beside her. “All the love sonnets and dirty pictures I’ve sent to the Brewer’s Guild, and nothing.  _You_ tell one guy to take a left at the fork, they send you a present.  I’m telling you, you’ve _got_ to let me borrow that hair sometime. Speaking of…” He took the liberty of plucking wooden shrapnel from her golden mane. She chuckled. He crouched beside her, brushing the clutter aside to look at her rug.

“Isn’t it gorgeous? Handmade by the finest artisans in Ferelden, a gift for the Inquisitor.”  She looked with him, idly fingering the soft woolen weave.

“Yeah sure Goldy, it’s a nice rug.  So was the bed, for that matter.”

“Mmm…it was.”  She rose to her feet, tossing her hair back and brushing herself off before offering him a hand up and flashing a smile. “Eh, I can fix it.”

“Oh, I know you can. But why did you break it in the first place? And are you going to open this?” He plucked the box from the ground as he stood, balancing it in his hand as he looked at her.

She made a tired sound and gestured toward the balcony. “Let me clean up this mess first, and we’ll open it together.  Wait out there please, so I don’t turn you into a coat rack by mistake.”

“Better a chest for your unmentionables, my dear.” He strode out onto the balcony, leaving her snorting with laughter as she magicked her furniture back into furniture.  Books were harder – she left the pages scattered on the floor. 

Mere minutes passed before she was able to invite him to sit at her desk with her.  She looked around for the second chair. Ah, that’s right.  Varric schlepped it in from the balcony and they sat down together.  The sun was already setting. The day had flown by.

“Do me the honors, will you?  I earned enough splinters today.”  She sat down next to him, curiously watching as his gloved hands snatched some tool from his belt and worked at the box.

“I knew you couldn’t handle a day off, Goldy.  You’re better off staying in the field where you belong.  More than eight hours without magic-bashing someone, and you’re destroying Fereldan antiques.” He monologued over the squeak of prying nails, popping the lid from the box.

“You may have a point, Varric.  Oh, it’s wine? I didn’t think the Dwarves made wine.  It’s beautiful.”  Varric removed one of two delicate wine bottles from the box and turned it in his hands as they studied it together.  It was blue like the sky, imprinted somehow with the beautiful image of a tree in silver.  Varric made a sound of appreciation as he placed the bottle in her hands.

“I’ve heard about this.  The Brewmaster got his hands on some old Elven recipe – they’ll make anything, you know, just so they can say they made it better in Orzammar. It’s a pride thing.  Pretty sure the stuff is called icewine.  No clue how they make it, no clue if it’s any good.  Probably sent it to you ‘cause of these,” he poked her ear to make her laugh, “and ‘cause they wanted it out of the store house.”

She rose to her feet with the bottle in her hands. “Care to taste it with me? I’ll just run to the kitchen.”

He held up a hand, shaking his head. “No thanks, Goldy.  Wine just isn’t my thing. I can’t imagine how… _elfy_ that shit must taste.”  He watched her set the bottle down and retake her seat with a good-natured smile.  “Thanks, though.  Hey, have you been out of here all day? You look stir crazy.  And you didn’t answer my question.  Why the devastation? Anything I can help with?  You scared the shit out of Josephine.”

 “Let’s chock it up to a lifetime of sexual frustration,” she quipped, leaning back in her chair with a dramatic sigh.

“I keep _telling_ you to bed with Iron Bull and tell me all about it. I’ll write it, we’ll split the profits.  We can ditch the Inquisition and live like Kings on our oxman smut money! _Torn Asunder: Riding the Ox_...Plowing? Oxen pull plows, right?”

They laughed vivaciously together, her cheeks flushing as she carried the jest. “Why not bed me yourself, you hairy prude?  Write about your own life for once! _Hirsuit Heat: The Dwarfening._ ”

Their laughter died down to chuckling, he wiped a joyful tear from his eye as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, My Lady, I’m afraid you’re not my type. Too ugly. And that title is _awful_!"

She made a gesture of indifference. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

He picked his chair up and turned it to face her, plopping down with a thud.  “Seriously, though.  Can I take you for a real drink? You’ve been so quiet lately, it’s not like you.  And your eye is doing this...twitchy thing. You know you can trust me, right?”

She reached out and gave his hand a squeeze, shaking her head as she smiled at him.  “Varric, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  You have always been good to me.  And thank you for the invitation, but I have a lot to think about tonight.  Don’t you drink too much either, you old hound, I want you bright and early tomorrow.”

He groaned and sighed a heavy sigh as he rose from his chair, slapping the top of her thigh. “Suit yourself, boss.  I’m here if you want to talk – and I don’t make that offer lightly, you know.  I’ll leave you to it.”

He began to take his leave, but stopped at the top of the stairs. “Hey…”

“Yes?”

“If I sleep with you tonight, can I get out of that early morning mission?” He rubbed his neck with a whine. “I _hate_ that early morning shit.”

She laughed and flung a book at him, hard.  He dodged with great drama. “Fine, FINE then! Can I at least borrow your sodding rug?  Do you have any idea how _cold_ the floor is in my room?”

She laughed again. “Out, damn you!  Get your own rug!” He smiled the smile of a rascal and wiggled his fingers at her as he descended the stairs.  She heard him take the liberty of re-locking her door. Cheeky!


	7. He Felt So Real

Sunny as the day had been, icy night broke unyielding. 

Una could not abide Skyhold’s cold stone walls.  Her mind’s trove of conjured whimsies contained one desert stronghold, walls standing time’s test of heat and sand. To hell with numb wet noses, water seeping in cracks, freezing, expanding, chilling her bones in the night.  Curse this frigid wasteland!

A candlelit ritual, the same every evening, her transition to yet another sleepless night.  Shutters and doors shrouded in wards against the cold.  A flick at the veil to set chilly logs alight with crackling heat.  The air sang with scraping as she pulled a chair across the floor, so close to the fire it seemed as though she meant to burn the thing.

The nausea again, a pounding numbness in her brain, double vision confirmed with a glance at her fingers.  A fresh supply of _venuth_ , having arrived under discreet courtesy of her unquestioning Elven apothecary, waited in her desk. Pop goes the stopper, unhesitating swig, a toe to slam the drawer closed.  Finality, determination, stubborn will. Drawer-slamming was part of the ritual.

A deep breath puffed her cheeks, vibrating noisily from her tired lips as she shook out her arms en route to the fireplace.  A glint on the floor caught her eye, a bauble overlooked and out of place.  She plucked the knickknack from the rug and turned it in her hands _,_ unsuccessfully willing memories to abstain.

They were sneaking together.  Not all members of the Inquisition were above looting the Winter Palace. “What the hell is _this_ good for? Not a pendant, no hole in it.” 

Solas rarely paid loot mind.  She swore she saw his ears twitch when he glanced over Varric’s shoulder to find the dwarf puzzling over the contents of a beautifully tooled little box.  “May I see it, Varric?”  A dismissive toss of the thing over Varric’s low-lying shoulder.  Solas caught it with effortless grace.  He did _everything_ with effortless grace.

His expression – was that _mischief_ that flashed across his face?  A knowing chuckle, hopelessly smug. 

“Ah, as I thought. It is Elvhen, Varric, a trinket called a _valunin_.” Solas showed her the thing, his palm outstretched.  Bright silver, smaller than a sovereign, thin and slightly convex, studded with tiny colorful gemstones that sparkled in the candlelight. 

He brought his palms together and separated them to place the trinket upside down, still holding it out for her inspection.  No gems on the concave side. A strange textured surface, tiny waves and bumps.  Interest waning, she turned to move on with a noise that meant, “Well. Isn’t that _nice_.”

“Alright smart ass, what does _valunin_ mean? What’s the thing for?” Varric handed the box to Solas and turned to follow the Inquisitor.  The Fademancer’s steps accompanied as he spoke.

“In the Common Tongue v _alunin_ translates to pleasure, roughly.  A _valunin_ is pleasant to look at, pleasant to touch.  Here.” Three long strides and he was at her side, smiling as he presented the box to her. “Keep it on your bedside table, Inquisitor.”

She eyed the box as they walked, skeptical. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time to sit in my chambers enjoying baubles, _falon._ Not to mention, the thing does not belong to us.”

He insisted, taking her hand in his own and pressing the box to her palm.  Her heart stuttered at his touch.  He said simply, “I doubt it will be missed.  Consider it a gift from me, Inquisitor.  I would very much like you to own it.”

Moved then by his uncharacteristic thieving gesture, she thanked Solas and kept it.  It resided on her bedstand at his request, sparkling and doing heaps of nothing.  Seeing it used to make her smile and think of dancing; finding it now it made her sigh, set her left eyelid twitching.  She placed it on her desk with a stern metal _click_ , lip curling a bit at the behest of baser emotions.

Cole's loose tongue rattled in her brain, pricking her with questions.  Her wounded heart ached to know who Solas was, to understand his reasons for toying at her heart and leaving.  Her mind, paranoid with the world-bending weight of her station, feared he had been using her for something more than love.  She could not imagine what, but the death of their relationship certainly bade her question his intentions towards the Inquisition. 

She would have her answers tomorrow night.

Back to business.  Stooping, Una scooped up a sloppy stack of pages before she found her seat and set to work sorting them into respective gaping bookbindings at her feet. 

While the Inquisitor would assuredly infuriate the world’s librarians with her afternoon book gutting fit, the book she mourned most genuinely was of little historical value.  This particular compendium typically lived safe and dry in a dedicated drawer, wrapped with leather in great care.  In recent nights, Una had taken to comforting herself with viewing the thing.  Her guardianship had grown careless.

She cradled a page from her picture book of Dalish children’s tales.  A tattered and unassuming set of pages when whole, it could barely be _called_ a book.  Images of the Halla Mother’s great journey, the creation of the sun and moon, the tragic fall of timeless Arlathan.

Most clans did not make books for their children, preferring to rely solely on oral tradition.  Kindhearted _hahren_ Leamar created a book for every Lavellan child, apparently even river bastards like mop-headed little Una. Her mind’s eye could recite each page down to the last sweeping brushstroke. 

The good-hearted storyteller had given life to each of these pictures dozens of times, his legacy of love immortalized on every page.  Una cherished the gift, cherished the old man for accepting her when so many did not.  The night Leamar died she clutched the little book fiercely to her chest, rocking and sobbing alone in the dark.  To this day her shoulders occasionally longed for his compassionate, accepting embrace.

Her finger traced the edge of the image in her lap. A smug and perky white wolf with his nose in the air, tail high with pride, walking alone in Leamar’s glimmering storybook Fade.  The trickster’s teeth were bared in gloating laughter, his bright blue eyes twinkling with secrets. 

She smiled at first, remembering Leamar’s chilly morning story as the pair walked the outskirts of camp together. An unembarrassed child, Una had stripped naked to dance in the mud beneath Fen’Harel’s statue that day, howling at the sky with all her might when the story was over.

It hit her like a dragon’s tail across her stomach.  Her eyes tracked as damning evidence fell to place and crushed her.  Cole's expression of his ancient largeness, the Fadewalking, _Creators_   _no_ , the necklace, the mural, the  _face_ he made when he spoke of the Dalish, her  _people_.  His eyes that pierced the darkest night, beautiful and cold.  She could have written off the lot of it, but his eyes forced the truth.

Her grasp tightened with a crinkling on shabby paper, face white as a sheet.  She had no dinner to toss.  She reeled in her chair and she melted.  She killed herself a thousand times.  She turned inside out and fed herself to rabid dogs. Her heart stopped. Her breath stopped. Terror filled her tight like a blighted water skin at a rotten oasis, the only oasis for miles, threatening to bid her burst.

A ragged breath of life then, the Inquisitor’s pulse careening with the most foreign of emotions: _Fear_.  She whispered to herself as she stared at the beloved image, wet tears blurring her vision and threatening old paper. 

“Old Fadewalker. Slippery trickster, bitter with bane for my people.  I was blind not to see you when any child from my Clan could have called you out by name in a moment.   Where fear of you once stayed my hand from snatching pies, misplaced trust in you may have cost me the world.” 

She did not laugh, not even bitterly.  She stared at the pale wolf’s teeth.  “I must know your intentions. To that end I mean to _trick_ you, have no recourse but to try.  How can I hope to succeed? Beautiful, _terrible_ Fen’Harel, what will you do to my life, my cause, my people, when you detect my naïve and unseasoned deceit? What rending pains can you summon in me that you have not already? I cannot imagine them, but I am sure you know them well.” 

A quiet sob, a quaking whisper.

“ _What will you do to me? Why are you here?  What do you want?_ ” 

She turned away with an expression of pained desperation, far shy of hope.  She pleaded to the fire that crackled in her hearth.

“ _Please._ Say my people are wrong about you, too. Tell me I am wrong to fear you, for I do.  _Damn_ me, I do.  I tremble for it.”  She looked down at her shaking hands, taking a breath to summon stillness. It did not work.

“He felt so real. _He felt so real._ ”

Her heart raced, blood screaming in her ears.  She searched that racing heart in vain for faith in success, finding only horror and dread.

She would send for him tomorrow night, and she would try for the truth of him.  


	8. Quiet, Yes, But Never Gone

The hunt fostered a stillness in him, primal and pure.  A hacking sound, a rolling tongue and curt snap of his head to the side, expunging the matted fur of his prey.  Bone splitting in strong jaws, steam rising, blood a stark stain in the snow.  The hot, fresh stink of flesh and innards. 

For all her camouflage, the darting white hare stood little chance against the sleek white wolf.  She knew him in the moment he took her – all wild creatures of the earth and sky knew Fen’Harel. The fish and leviathans couldn’t care less.  Frogs, ‘eh, they had _heard_ of him, as one might hear of a faraway tornado or a bad winter five, maybe eight years back.

As he fed, he listened and watched.  Singing wind sent snow spiraling in flurries, set his thick fur erect against the chill.  A carrion bird backlit by the high noon sun circled overhead, keeping a respectful distance in wait of Fen’Harel’s leavings.  “Ahai!” thought the bird with screeching glee and shining eyes, “These will be very _lucky_ leftovers!”

Finished, the beast trotted with exuberance up the ridge.  He watered a rocky outcropping, left his scat in the snow.  His name on the wind would keep predators at bay for days, a gift of life to the hare’s nearly grown kits in exchange for their mother’s sacrifice.

The jilting racket of wagon wheels on the road.  Furry ears perked as he sniffed the air, bright blue gaze in the direction of the sound.  Three humans, all males, two horses, varnish.  Lean muscles rippled as the agile predator sped off, his idle curiosity as good an excuse as any for a good sprinting.  The carrion bird alighted at the sudden burst of action, settling quickly back on his booty when the wolf passed.

Swift paws made quick work of distance.  Fen’Harel stalked in the snow, listening.  He could not see the men and their cargo inside the wagon.  The travelers were moving at a fair pace, heading straight for Skyhold.

“Aye, I’ve heard she’s a feast for the eyes, if y’like thin women.”

“Thin an’ _pointy._ No tits, knife-ears.”

“Tits ain’t everything, Bern.”

An unrefined snort, full of phlegm and ignorance.  Ah.  This ‘Bern’ was the source of that dank, soiled undergarments stench, and he also reeked of spirits.  Charming.  Typical.  “Speak fer yerself.”

“Knob off, Bern.  Anyhow, I wonder if we’ll meet her?  Imagine, The Herald of Andraste! History, ain’t it? They’ll want our autographs at the shop.”

A mocking tone, high-pitched and scratchy. “Oi then, welcome to my Ice Castle, ‘ave some elfy biscuits!”

Bern again, after hocking spit with gusto. “I _tol’_ yeh, The Maker wuddn’t send no knife-ear bitch t’do ‘is work.  S’blasphemy.  I say we lob ‘er pointy ears off, give ‘er a good fuck’n her tight li’l elf-savage arsehole, an’ torch ‘er like th’ _heretic_ she is.  An’ her a mage! She prolly tore the feckin’ hole in th’ sky ‘erself!” 

The vile creature hung on every syllable of ‘heretic’, as if a sudden commitment to diction would make his dreams come true.  Bern’s colorful manner was obviously overwhelming to his companions, who fell to clearing their throats and scowling. After a time, one ventured to say, “I’d keep that to m’self if I were you, Bern, seein’s how we’re headed straight for th’Inquisition.”

The other man chimed in. “Yea’, an’ I’ve ‘eard the lady Inquisitor is stronger than y’d think.”

Bern hocked spit again.

Fen’Harel was quite smug for a wolf, but he did not feel as a man would feel.  Emotions were soft and quiet, vague ideas and whispers easily overshadowed by the burning drives to feed, to prowl, to sleep.  The longer he spent as a wolf, the quieter his elven worries became.  Quiet, yes, but never gone.  If _that_ were the case, Fen’Harel would have lost himself countless ages ago.

He was not confused by his sudden decision to kill the man.  He did not think on reason, only felt the will to do so.  Fen’Harel patiently waited, trotting along in the deep snow beside the road.  It was a simple matter of waiting for the coach to stop, for Bern to break off and relieve himself.

Bern did not keep the Dread Wolf waiting long.


	9. A Petty Little Corner of His Heart

The waypoint in the Great Hall flashed and Solas came to be, newly washed bare toes curling familiar against chilly ancient stone.  A quick evening trip to gather fresh clothes, check his door for messages, down a cup of that spicy tea. Alas, he was almost out, and most certainly wasn’t comfortable asking after the recipe.

He idly tongued at something stuck in his teeth as he made his unhurried way to the rotunda, tongue dancing under his cheek.  He would not paint tonight – his heart had not been in it for some time.  He scorned himself over the unfinished project as he had for weeks, told himself one more time that he most certainly _would_ finish it. Just not tonight.

No admonishing notes on the door, a disappointing surprise.  Solas had taken the day with no leave.  A petty little corner of his heart had hoped someone would notice.  _It is of no consequence.  I must stop these foolish thoughts._   He opened the door to head in for his things.

“Ah, Master Solas. _Here_ you are.”  Matronly and kind, an unexpected but welcome voice.  She smelled of freshly pressed linens, ah, and just a hint of Una’s blossoming perfume.  He turned on his toes to greet the woman behind him with a good-natured smile, holding the door open and gesturing inside.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Leithara.  Please, come in.  I take it you have been looking for me.  How may I help you?”

He watched her enter, pulled the door closed behind himself and escorted her to take a seat.  Solas towered over the old elven woman.  A city elf born and raised, her slight stature bore testament to a lifetime of poor living conditions.  Leithara never volunteered the story of how she came to be head matron of Skyhold’s custodial staff.  He assumed Una’s unflagging benevolence was to thank.

She held up a hand to deny the seat, nodding in gratitude. “Thank you, ser, but I haven’t time to stay.  I apologize for my haste, Master Solas, as well as the short notice.  The Inquisitor requests an audience in her chambers this evening.  I have kept an eye out for you all day.”

“ _Ar abelas_ , Leithara.  I have caused you trouble.”  His mind burned with a simple question: the purpose of the audience.  The Inquisitor had not sought his counsel in obvious weeks.  To ask Leithara would be inappropriate, and it did not occur to him to do so.

She shook her head. They smiled warmly at each other. “I have eyes all over Skyhold, ser, to keep one out for you is hardly trouble.  The sun sets as we speak.  I will leave you to it.”  She bowed, and he in return.  She paused to admire his mural on her way out the door. “Ahhh. Lovely, the gold. Just lovely. Yours is a rare and precious gift.”

He thanked her kindly as he closed the door behind her.  Solas disrobed, changing into his lightest pants and tunic, abstaining from his customary doublet.  He had only visited her chambers once, but he remembered his coveted lady’s preference for sweltering heat.


	10. Tell Me I Am Wrong

That same acerbic varnish stench trespassed on his heart’s delight of jasmine and feminine musk.  Harp music – _that_ had been their cargo, then.

An unfamiliar woman’s voice crooning with the lilt of a child.  A forlorn ballad, a mother bereft, unheeding son lost to war.  Sweet and simple memories of his childhood, raw and surging with woe.  Never, in all his days, had Solas heard lamentations so exquisite in the common tongue.  Keening verse racked his muted heart and bent his head with mourning as he stood at the Inquisitor’s door, refusing to interrupt such mellifluous craft.

One last doleful trill and the air fell quiet.  He stood breathing and lost, numbly staring at his toes.  Loose knuckles rapped gently after a time, breaking the serene silence growing in the wake of the music.

His body was still in the eternal moments after knocking, hands folded behind his back.  Discomfort at the notion of being alone with her, in her _chambers_ no less, crept into his notoriously calm and collected mind.

He knew she frequently entertained company here when time was amenable.  For that, his presence as a member of the Inquisition was not at all unusual. 

The Inquisitor’s request to meet with _him,_ however, bewildered Solas.  The Fademancer had not received the slightest intimation of her thoughts these past few weeks.  In fact, he knew with unhesitating certainty that Una had not spoken a word to him. 

In girding his agonizing heart to abandon her, Fen’Harel braced for many possible reactions.  Crying, begging, accusations, scorn everlasting. Violence.  Not one of his predictions was correct.  Una’s unfailing capacity for shocking him set the wolf’s ancient soul aflame, and he adored her for it.

He lost himself to memory.  The _benevolence_ in her voice as she assured him of her love that night, beguiled lips still glistening with his selfish, lustful kiss.  His jilted lover heard the bleating of his broken heart as he forsook her and pitied him for it, offered him comfort.

Her expression when last she looked upon him, concern preoccupied with a question. Her verdant eyes a thousand miles away, as she watched him leave they ceased to see him.

It could not be termed snubbing. Her actions expressed no choler, only indifference, utter inattention to his very being.   Varric was real. _Cole_ was real. Solas was a silent and nameless staff at her side, less than a phantom to her.

_Hate me, ma vhenan, for my greedy lust, for my lapping abuse of your gentleness.  Do not grant this flea-bit cur sneaking access to the bottomless well of your compassion through the back door of apathy. Curse me, sweet creature, for don’t you know you deserved better?_

He knocked again, louder.  A gravelly whisper pricked his ears with curiosity, then silence.  His heart and mind continued their writhing, taking a familiar turn.

He had only ventured up these stairs once before, lost in the throes of impolitic courtship.  Never had he parted from her so abruptly, fleeing his burning desire to bed her when her inviting fingers ran down his spine on her balcony.  One gentle touch at his back set his aching loins hard and raging, leaving him no recourse but to scram for her sake.

The memory of her touch stirred him without fail. He ruefully thought better of his decision to wear these pants; her room may be hot, but breeches afforded his starving body no secrets in her alluring presence.  In all his days, Solas had never experienced this juvenile concern.

 _Mercy_ , but the room had been thick with her.  Every scrap of fabric, wood, and glass within sang her name for him. The very air beckoned him as no desire demon ever could, sapping his resolve to wrong her no more gravely than he already had _._

All of this from one visit, a brief one, in the middle of the day.  His frantic mind dreaded the temptations of this evening encounter, however formal it may be. His heart could not wait one moment longer to be inside with her.  Even now, outside her door, the atmosphere was heavy with the scent of her.  Fingers at his back teased at his palm, anxious, hot with a desire he loathed. 

 _Ah_ , to steal another glance at the velvety shrine where she sleeps.  How he longed to gently take her hip and lead her there, to unbind her flaxen tresses, to lick the salt from her body and fill her soul with the truth of his devotion. Hers was a unique and unknowable beauty, reducing his body to basest lust and his soul to helpless, fervid love.

_Harellan'alas lath'din. She is not for you._

The sound of footfalls on the stairs.  His heart jumped to his mouth like a child caught stealing.  The door opened away from him, he readied himself for greeting.  It was not the Inquisitor.

Scars from blades, scars from burning.  A twisted, craggy landscape of skin where her left ear and hair should be. Her lips displaced with adhesion, tension from the same pulling her eyelid down to leave her eye red and weeping.

Fen’Harel was no stranger to the sight of gnarled flesh.  He beheld the ravaged shemlen’s face as he would any other, gave a polite and earnest nod. “Good evening, my lady.” 

She nodded back and smiled at him.  He sensed then that she meant to leave, stepped aside that she may do so.  She gestured into the room as she left, leaving the door open behind her.

His mind made wordless thanks as he entered and shut the door.  The solemn sight of that poor woman escorted his mind and body back to reality with a snap.  He found himself composed and ready to speak with the Inquisitor.

The corner of his eye captured her as he mounted the stairs, and he was puzzled even before his bare toes hit the landing.   She was laying on the floor in a shemlen gown.

He stood at the top of the stairs and stared down at her openly, his hand finding purchase on the banister.  Her arms were bent, palms facing the ceiling with fingers gently curled, framing her face on the ornate rug.  Her hair was arranged in a complicated shemlen coiffure.  One cheek on the carpet, her green eyes aimed at a harp she did not seem to see.

She had that same unknowable expression, thinking, imagining maybe, a thousand miles away.  Unlike before, however, her eyes seemed matte and lifeless.  He found this quite disturbing, and knit his brow in silence as he surveyed her. 

There was a faint acrid smell in the room.  It was familiar, though he could not place it.  It bade his hackles rise.

They stayed that way for quite some time.  Solas grew concerned and uneasy with every passing moment until he could no longer bear it.  “Inqui – “

She cut him off, her gentle voice barely audible. “A Dalish clan did that to her.”

A long and slow expulsion of air from his nose. The first time she acknowledged him in weeks.  He felt his throat tighten with the weight of her words.  “ _Ir abelas, lethallan._ ”

She closed her eyes and took a quiet breath.  “Her name is Mayren.  She gave me this dress.  Did you hear her?”

“Yes, Inquisitor, I heard her. Common tongue has no words for the beauty of her music.”

She opened her eyes.  They were alive again and they _saw_ him, reached out to him with the hesitant sadness of an orphaned child.  He had never seen such a look on her.  Her grief racked him.  He longed to embrace her in her sorrow, to squeeze her and whisper his love and sympathy in her ears, to rock her, to let her cry. 

He could do no such thing. 

He sank cross-legged to the floor in front of her, maintaining respectful distance.  “Inquisitor, your heart is clearly heavy for this poor woman.  I am your friend, and I am glad to listen.”

Her words came slow and thick like blackest tar. “Her husband, Grant, was a merchant. They were traveling on foot from Gwaren to Denerim to flee the blight.”

“On foot, _falon_?  Why did they not take a ship?”

She smiled sadly and sat up to face him, her dress flowing around her on the woolen rug as she folded her legs at her side.  A lock of hair fell loose from her opulent coiffure, nearly tickling the floor.  His heart leapt as her hands rose to begin deconstructing the tight hairstyle, more soft gold spilling over her bust.  She was breathtaking, _wonderful._ Even as he listened in sincerest sympathy, he felt as a voyeur feels.

She continued as she freed her hair.  He could see the talking improving her mood, taking the weight from her.  “Superstition, sadly.  Mayren was quick with their second child. In spite the urgings of their friends, the couple could not abide a birth at sea.

I imagine it was clan Fin’as.  Their hunters are notoriously violent, have always blamed the shemlen for the blight.  They destroyed her harp, slaughtered her horses, played at Fen’Harel’s Teeth with the three of them.”  Her brow knit as she looked into his eyes, beseeching the past.  Her voice suddenly broke with a sob, and Fen’Harel felt his old heart shatter and die.  “He was _five,_ Solas, her son was _five!_ ”

She shuddered and wailed alone for but a moment.  Solas could not take to his knees fast enough, grabbing her forcefully and squeezing her against his body, his face tortured with grief for her.  She melted into his arms, racked with sobbing, her face against his chest, fingers clutching the back of his tunic.  He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and knit his fingers into her soft hair, rocking her like a child.  She screamed the rest of her story through her bawling.

“They _raped_ her, they _burned_ her, they _lashed_ her as she shielded her dead little son from their savagery!  The clan’s healer was gathering nearby, found them too late, admonished them for treating an expecting mother this way, and then they _left_ her! They just _left_ her!”

He kissed the top of her head and left his mouth pressed there, speaking into her hair as she wept. His chest, wet with her hot tears and the moisture of her screaming mouth against his tunic, vibrated with soothing Elvish for her. He stroked her back.  “ _Ir abelas, da’len, ir abelas._ This world can be unspeakably terrible, _ma da’len,_ but there is good.  _Breathe,_ _lethallan_.”

She took a quaking breath at his behest and continued to lament.  She snuggled her face hard against him, clutching him as if drowning.  So vulnerable in her sympathy, her ironclad heart so gentle.  Fen’Harel could feel tears cooling on his cheeks – Mythal herself would be astounded.  He loosened his grip to bid her relax, humming a lovely ancient lullaby to soothe her heart. “ _Ma’eth, da’len._ I am here. _Ma’eth_. _Breathe_.”

He could feel her regaining herself gradually as he continued his soothing ministrations.  Sobs grew softer, turned to sniffles as breaths came even and slow.  He sniffled subtly himself as he finished the lullaby, stroking the back of her sweet head.

She parted from his embrace with a suddenness that pained him, turning her face away as if ashamed.  Her voice was hard with self-admonishment. “I apologize, Solas.  I did not summon you for this, and it is not your job to be my nursemaid. _Abelas_.  I am beyond embarrassed.”

He felt his face go numb with the sting of her decorum, reached up to wipe his tears away.  She perceived the gesture, and he could not help but notice quiet surprise in the corner of her eye.  She had thought him heartless, he imagined. 

He hardened his voice for due measure, rising to his feet.  Her denial of her compassionate nature agitated him.  “Inquisitor, the burdens you bear are innumerable and grave.  To apologize for grieving over such a travesty discredits you and Mayren both.”

She rose to her feet with a brisk huff, brushing herself off.  “You are right, Solas, as always.  Thank you for your comfort, and thank you for coming to speak with me.”

“You are welcome, Inquisitor.”  He waited for a moment with his arms folded at his damp chest. Behind his mask of serene calm, Fen’Harel was irritated.  Disappointed.  He couldn’t face why.  “Now.  What is it you wish to discuss?”

She gestured towards chairs framing the crackling fire as she crossed the room to her desk.  “Yes, down to business.  Please, have a seat. There is much to talk about.”

He complied, pleased to have a fire to gaze at in contemplation.  His eyes needed a break from longing for her. That faint and bitter smell came back into his mind; it was on his shirt, now.  It was coming from her.  Frustratingly familiar, just out of reach of his memory.  And her breath, it had smelled of ginger.

He heard a wine cork, a sloshing pour. 

She spoke with the tone of an excited child, and he turned his head to look at her.  The mood between them instantly lightened with her enthusiasm. 

“The Brewer’s Guild of Orzammar sent me this!  Icewine, Varric says?  I don’t know anything about it, I thought you may know.  I also hoped you would share the experience of trying it with me.  It looks so rare and beautiful to me, and yet I cannot beg another soul to share it!” She was laughing as she crossed the room to join him at the fireplace with two wooden goblets in her hands.

“A durgen’len alemeister trying his hand at a sophisticated ancient Elvhen wine?” He shook his head and chuckled briefly as he watched her sit, eyeing the drink she held out to him with skepticism. Her sweet face was a picture of curious glee. “I am sorry Inquisitor, but I fear your ardor may be misplaced.  Not to mention that this drink, if it is icewine, is meant to be served in a fine sterling dish designed specifically for the draught.”

Her enthusiasm ebbed a bit as she looked down at the wooden goblets in her hands.  She shrugged and looked at him.  Her voice lost its bubbles.  “Anyway, it promises to be a new taste.  Will you try it with me?”  She continued to hold the drink out in offering to him.  With two hands, he gently took the clunky thing from her.

A strange but all-too familiar tingling moved through his hands as he touched the goblet.  He looked down, puzzled, concentrating.  His fingertips moved over the smoothly sanded wood.  It was ice cold.

“What is this?” He asked very quietly, his gaze burning a hole in the drink.

She was quiet for several beats before she answered him.  He wondered why.  “What is what?” She leaned forward towards him, looking down at the drink with concern on her face. “Why are you whispering?”

“There is magic here.  Who made this gift to you? The durgen’len do not have the means to imbue a draught with magic.”  There was suspicion in his voice as he looked up to her from the drink.  Her green eyes beheld him, most sincerely confused.

“ _Oh_ , you mean the magic I used to keep it cold?  It _is_ called icewine, after all.  I keep the room so warm, and I was not sure when you would arrive. I did not want to ruin the drink.  I could have easily kept it out on the balcony, but well, that would mean going out into the cold to fetch it!” She laughed haughtily, feigning a shiver. “No _thank_ you!”

She leaned back in her chair comfortably, holding her goblet out at arm’s length to toast with him. “Anyhow, I doubt the magic will affect the taste, such that it is. To staying warm!”

 _She is so charming_. He couldn’t help but smile at her as he raised his clunky goblet to tap her own, his concerns forgotten. “To staying warm, then.  Indeed, as warm as you keep it in here, I would not be surprised to hear you were raised by dragons.”  _Dragons, indeed. She certainly does keep it hot in here_.

They sipped in unison.  He saw her pause, holding the wine in her mouth with that far-off look of hers.  After a beat she swallowed, smiled, nodded decisively. “I like it! Very sweet, very strong.  Do you like it? Does it taste like the real thing?”

He could never admit how spot-on it tasted, for this was a drink long dead to history.  The nostalgic taste warmed his heart.  He smiled politely and nodded. “Yes, Inquisitor, I do like it, although I cannot vouch for the authenticity of a drink popular so long before my time.  Taste is one thing the Fade cannot teach me.” He moved to set the goblet on the rug beside his chair.   “Thank you for sharing with me, _lethallan_ , but alcohol troubles my sleep. I hope you understand.”

“Of course, Solas. I will let you off the hook for now.  Once we defeat Corypheus, however, we will acquire the proper servingware and drink in earnest. I hold you to that!” 

He nodded gently, his heart sad with the lie.  “Of course. I look forward to it.”

Another sip before she mimicked his actions by setting her drink on the floor beside a sloppy pile of…book pages?  It was not his business, but he was curious.

“I should also mention, Inquisitor, that it would behoove you to take care with consumable gifts.  There are those who would poison you.”

The flutter of a smirk on her face.  “Let them try!” She winked at him, patting her stomach before her arms came to rest on the arms of the chair. “I’ve always had an iron stomach.”

“You are nothing if not foolhardy, my friend.  Now, what is it you wish to discuss with me?”  He shook his head and chuckled at her, fighting a smile.  He mirrored her posture, looking patiently at her as he waited for her to speak.

He watched thoughts move over her face like clouds racing over a field on a windy, sunny day.  Her countenance became serious, her green eyes left his gaze to find the fire.  He watched her beauty with appreciative eyes as he listened.

“The Vallaslin.  The spell you used.  Can you teach it to me?”

His heart jumped even higher up in his throat than her presence already bade it stay.  His cool decorum did not falter.  One eyebrow crept a little as he tilted his head, watching the side of her bare face.  “An unexpected request.  May I ask why?”

“Yes, you may ask why.  But I will only restate my request.”

Her voice was dark and firm.  He could hear now that he was not her friend in this transaction, but a dangerous entity to be bargained with.  He had heard this guarded tone countless times before in their dealings with threatening men and spirits alike.  It pained him to hear her so guarded, but he could not blame her.  For all of that, he was just as guarded.  It was an uncomfortable topic for both of them. 

“I am sorry, Inquisitor.  I cannot teach you to remove the Vallaslin.  It is –“

He was taken aback by her blunt interruption as her gaze left the fire and jumped to his face, piercing.  He sat back in his chair. “In ancient Elvhenan, surely masters did not brand their slaves one at a time.   If you cannot teach me to remove the Vallaslin myself, can you help me find a way to amplify your spell?”

“…Perhaps.”

“How long?”

“I am sorry, Inquisitor. I cannot say. But it may be possible.”

While the rest of her face was calm, her eyes shone with rage at him.  He imagined she wanted to murder him with her bare hands, but was not sure why.  He did not enjoy being the subject of her truth-seeking, this much he knew.

“Please, try.  It is important to me, and it is urgent.  I fear I do not have much time.”  Fluidly, she rose from her seat and strode across the room to throw open the doors for her balcony.  “Come, Solas, I can see you do not tolerate the heat.  We will continue our conversation outside.”

He said nothing, only rose to his feet and moved to join her.  He was thankful for the cold fresh air, and the room to stand a little further from her.  She seemed grateful to have a distance to stare off into as she continued to speak.   She spoke now in pure Elvish, the phonetics of which pulled at his heartstrings. 

“Solas, I have more to ask of you.  I need your help tomorrow, very early in the morning.  I humbly ask as your friend, and I pray that you will not deny me.”

His brow furrowed. “Inquisitor.  I have joined your every undertaking, from mundane to world-changing, since you closed your first rift.  I fail to see why a formal request of my aid is suddenly called for.  When have I ever denied you?”

“You know I am not fond of secrets, Solas.  Truth and honesty are all that come naturally to me.”

Evasive. Irritating.  Tonight, her capacity to vex him was unrivaled.  “Of course.  The Herald of Andraste and her Inquisition are known throughout the land as paragons of truth.  The reputation does you great credit.”

She lowered her voice as she looked down into the mud far below her balcony. “Will you keep a secret for me, Solas?  Will you lie for me?”

The sabotage of his calm disposition was complete. Steadfast manners gave way to impatience. “ _Fenedhis_ , Una!  Will you tell me what it is you ask of me?”

Her eyes found him.  “I have called a clansmeet, and I want you to accompany me.  No one can know.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “ _Arlathvhen_? They _listened_ to you?”

“I have dispatched the few Dalish waypoint mages all over Thedas.   I have been corresponding with every Keeper and Hahren who will listen to me since the day Corypheus nearly killed me, and I have done it all in secret.  This arrangement has been months in the making, Solas.  Your presence would bring me great comfort.”  She took his hand and squeezed it, looking up at him beseechingly. “It is a trying time, and I would have you by my side in friendship.  The others – The Inquisition – cannot know.”

“You do realize the Dalish tribes have not come together by unscheduled bidding since the time of Lord Hassandriel?  Does that not sound mad to you?”  His voice carried a softness as he looked down on her in wonder, his hand begging to cup her face and tell her how marvelous and bold she was.

“Yes, Solas, it does sound mad.  But I _must_ try, for their sake.  I do not claim to be their ruler, but I _must_ try to unify my people before it is too late.”

He looked perplexed by her statement, wondering exactly what made her so desperate to unify the Dalish.  “I am not so sure the Dalish deserve your grace, Inquisitor.  If this is important to you, of course I will stand by your side in friendship.  You have been nothing if not a dear friend to me, and I would be honored to support you.”

In all abruptness, she hugged him urgently, whispering thanks up to him as she pressed her cheek to his padded chest.  His breath caught in his throat as he responded in kind, squeezing her tight.  His fingers found her soft hair where it spilled to the small of her waist, and for but a moment he lost himself, pressing his lips against the top of her head once again, breathing in a life’s breath of her scented hair. 

“You have paint on your shirt.”  She purred up at him as she picked at a golden blotch on his shoulder with her fingernail, making a slow rhythmic click.

“Ah…so I do.”  He shut his eyes tight and shook his head, breaking the embrace with a slow and gentle release, tugging at the edge of his tunic to straighten it as he attempted a light-hearted smile.  He huffed briskly and made to leave, speaking over his shoulder as he did so.  He was suddenly in a great hurry.

“I must away to bed and rest if we’re to leave as early as you say.  I suggest you do the same, my friend, you seem tired tonight.  Thank you again for the wine, it was very kind of you to share with me.”

She came in from the cold balcony rubbing her arms as she watched him rush away.  She spoke breathlessly.  “I don’t sleep, but please have a good evening, Solas.  I will come for you in the morning.  Thank you again for coming, for agreeing to help me.  I hope the wine will not disturb your sleep.”  She closed the doors to the balcony, settling down at her desk to write.

Understanding dawned on him.  That bitter smell, the ginger for her certain nausea.  Memories of comrades tortured with poison surged, made his blood run cold.  _How in a hundred hells does she come to have it?_

He froze before his foot hit the first stair and turned his face to stare at her, mortified, aghast.  It was some time before she noticed, green eyes puzzled at her desk.

“…Solas? What on earth is the matter?”

His voice was dark as the ocean, placid on the surface, roiling underneath. Cold eyes burning bright at her across the room.  “You are drinking _venuth_. Tell me I am wrong.”

Her curiosity hardened into an obstinate glare as she stared him down.  Three beats.  She looked down at her paper and began to write. _Ignored_ him.

“How long?”

Nothing. The scratching of her fountain pen.

He _commanded_ it of her. His frozen blood flashed past boiling as he clenched his fists at his sides.  “ _Una._ How long?”

He watched her shake her head, artificially busying herself.  She would not look at him. Her tone was dismissive.  “Leave it, you vex me.  Good night, Solas.”

He surged across the room with the wrath of a god, slamming his fist on her desk as he bellowed with outrage, his face mere inches from her own.  “ _ARE YOU INSANE? LOOK AT ME!”_ He grabbed her chin and roughly forced her eyes to meet his own, his teeth bared in rage as he snarled into her face.

“Do you have _any idea_ how _dangerous -_ _FENEDHIS!_ ” He slammed his fist down again and slapped her hard across the face, grabbed her chin forward once more.  Her eyes burned defiant as his violence blossomed on her naked cheek.  “It will _kill_ you, Una! Give it to me _now!_ ” 

Her sultry voice growled with scorn and malice as she glared up at him, his fingers a vice on her face.  She was still holding her pen. “How _dare_ you lecture me as though I am some child you care enough to chastise. Get your _fucking_ hands off me.”   

A white and gold battle of wills as they scowled at each other in dead heat, wrath measure for measure, the air thick with their rage at each other. 

It was in her desk, he could smell it.  He snarled as he roughly released her face, storming around her desk to throw her top drawer open, sending scraps of storybook pages wafting to the floor.

The Inquisitor was on him then with an almighty force that struck the wind from his lungs and sent him crashing onto the rug.  Fen’Harel knew her deadly grace more than most, and still was blindsided by her strike.  Her hand behind his head pressed his face into the weave, magic fought against deflections to bind his hands, her knee dug in his back.  His aura scrambled for the veil like a fawn on the ice, her own aura denying him hold with indomitable will, if only for a heartbeat.

She hissed in his ear, her voice strained with the struggling battle of their aspects. _“Enough._ Be still and _listen_ to me, Solas.  I will heed you and stop taking it, but I will _not_ surrender it to you. _Yield_ , _lethallin._ You are my friend, and I do not wish to fight you.”

He stopped struggling as his rage at her abated, his heart flooding with guilt and concern. A tired sigh and she relaxed, rising to her feet.  She offered him a hand.  He was instantly sick at himself to see the flush of his roughness on her delicate face.

He moved to leave. Her hand stopped him.

“Solas. I appreciate your concern.”

Exasperated sigh, drained blue eyes looking down on her.  “I have seen visions of good men tortured to death over months by the drought in your desk, Inquisitor.  It is evil, a grave sin to concoct, and you _must_ destroy it.” 

His gentle hand found her face, cupped it with love, remorse in his eyes. “I am sorry for acting so brutishly.  We _cannot_ afford to lose you, Una.  Promise me you won’t drink it again. Promise me you’ll burn it.”  His thumb traced the bottom of her lip, his resolve not to love her weakened by the torrential emotions of their evening.

He could not imagine how tired and ill she must be. He watched her mossy green eyes sink closed. Her cheek grew heavy with trust in his hand, the same hand that struck her minutes before. _I am a monster, beautiful one.  Please stop trusting me._ “I promise, _falon_.”

He whispered goodnight, and he left.

\---

As soon as she heard the door latch behind him, she heaved a ten-ton sigh and sat on the edge of her bed.  She looked down at her hands shaking with nerves and adrenaline, tried not to vomit. 

 _She had seen everything_.


	11. Before the Fall of Arlathan

Five robed figures sneaking, silent footfalls on a crystalline walkway weaving through the boughs of mighty trees, glowing turquoise beneath the starry sky.  Their rushing urgency was foreign to the very air they breathed.

They gained the door of the slaves’ quarters without so much as a rustling.  One elf locked the door, set to warding.  Three set to silent waking, moving as specters through droves of sleeping, tattooed faces on the floor with touch after feathering touch.

The fifth walked with purpose down the avenue between two endless rows of indistinguishable bedrolls.  Stopped in the thick of it as though he knew them each by heart, set a shining bubble around himself and the sleeping woman he crouched before, granting them uncompromising privacy.

He touched her mark’d face.  His heart was racing. “Lessa.”

Tawny eyes snapped open with a gasp. “Solas.” A sad smile. “Then…it is finally time.”

Her hand reached up to push his hood back, heavy velvet falling on his broad shoulders, ivory hair spilling down to brush her face.  _He looks the same, but acts so young._   He took her hand and squeezed it.  “Why so sad?  Do not doubt, Lessa.  We will win.  Mythal is on our side.”  A dashing smile, youthful and encouraging.  A rebelling heart so full of confidence.

“Is she, now?”  A playful shove at his shoulder as she sat up in her bedroll, rubbing at her eyes.  His face grew smug.

“ _Yes_ , _lethallan_ , she is. I spoke to her just this morning.  You know, I think I am her favorite.”

“Solas, your arrogance is dangerous.”

“Ahai, it is not arrogance if I am _right!_ ” He pounced her with tickling, they rolled and laughed, hitting the wall of their private bubble with an “oof.”  She pinned him to the floor with her knee on his belly, folding her arms as she looked down on him with flattened eyes.  He smiled playfully, his hands up in surrender.

“You make at games, silly elf, while our lives are all at stake.  Many risk much for this night.”

His smile softened, “I know, Lessa.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His hand found her face and she sighed again, vexed with him.  “Silly, sweet thing.  You will not have a choice.”

His fingers traced her pointed ear, his hand sliding behind her bald head as he squinted up at her. “I _will_ , _ma’lath_. Please let me up.”

She slid off of him, swatting his loving hand from her head.  Since the loss of her flowing garnet-coloured hair, she could not abide his touch on her head.  It pained him.

“I’m sorry, Lessa.  I cannot riddle out a fix to your hair. I…tried.”  His jaw clenching, his eyes away.  Solas was terrible at failing.  She shoved him again.

“Shut up, Solas.  It doesn’t matter.  You are so soft in your royalty, to pine so over something stupid as hair when elves are killing each other.”  She gave his a tug, none too gentle.  “Besides, you’ve enough for the both of us.”

Her words belied the truth of it – an Elvhen’s hair was much to lose, and they both knew it. She was less than a mongrel without it.

He pounced her to the ground once more, straddling her, their noses touching.  A smile fluttered in the corner of her mouth.  He whispered at her.  “ _You_ are a liar, lovely Lessa.  Still, I have a gift for you. Close your eyes.”

She obeyed with a bashful grin, waiting for one of his hot and erratic kisses.  Instead, she felt a tingling on her face.  She held still, her heart stopping dead.  The tingling continued for a moment, then stopped.

“ _Oh, Solas_.  Did it work? Did it work?!”  Her eyes shot open, filled with tears of hope.  She surged upright and clutched at his shoulders, her eyes roaming his face with urgency.

He laughed with joy and excitement, raising his hand in front of her face to show her reflection with a glimmering magic as easily as one picks up a spoon. She grasped his wrist and stared at her naked face, uttering a sound of unspeakable elation.

“ _Oh, Solas. Thank you._ How will we ever repay you?”  More tears came, he laughed in continued joy and pulled her into a hug.  “By being strong and fierce as you are, _ma vhenan_. By helping me fix the world.”

Her whisper tickled his ear. “We will.  We will do it.”

His snowy hair fell around her as he lay her back, delivering the hot erratic kiss she had expected.  Though bloody revolution loomed inches from them on the other side of their bubble, Solas made gentle love to the elegant girl who mucked the stables in unrushed reverence, his prayers of devotion stretching into ecstatic eternities. 

Such was the way of things before the fall of Arlathan.

\---

Memories sped, erratic.  Solas sat on a stool in a sea of tattooed faces, four robed figures behind him, each elf’s hands on the other’s shoulders, channeling energy to him.  Even then, he could only remove one vallaslin at a time.  Countless slaves knelt before him, eyes shining with tears, whispering blessings, gratitude, devotion.  His hands trembled with the endlessness of the task, his entourage struggled to stay upright with the strain of his exertion, and still he continued.

\---

A slender white wolf in a beautiful temple, pacing, implacable.  A golden voice in his ears. “Fen’Harel, be still and listen.  The world and your people are not bound by the same rules.  All things degrade with time, _da’fen,_ it is the nature of the universe.  You cannot see it, because you are Elvhen.  Your stubbornness will cause you pain forever, righteous thing, until you _understand_.  _You_ may last eternities, but nothing you see built ever will.  So long as you live, the world will be destroying and creating itself.  To deny this truth is arrogant ignorance.”

Snarling rage, the pacing wolf became an elf, unembarrassed at his nudity as he argued with Mythal. His voice spat with contempt. “ _Then what is the point!_ So much _suffering_ , for what?  _What_ is the point of it, what is the point of _me?_ Shall I _abandon_ them all, let them _butcher_ each other?”

“That is your truth to find, _da’fen_ , I will not tell you what to do.  Rebellion is in your nature, but it is not in mine.  You must create your own path.”

He hurled an immaterial volley of force at her statue with his hands, fuming. “You are _wrong,_ All-Mother! You are _useless_!”

A knowing, patient chuckle.  “My rebellious, righteous little friend.” The voice fell silent.

\---

He woke with blood in his eyes, holding his forehead from the brutal blow.  He crawled to her broken body and knelt wailing like a tortured child, _screaming_ , begging, pulling his hair.  Her blood mixed with his own as he buried his face it against her, sobbing into her cold dead breast. 

Hers was one of countless corpses to lament, all of them his fault.  He grabbed his head in his hands as he bawled against her, caustic energy coursing through his fingers, incinerating his snowy hair to nothing with a pain like veilfire in his skull.  He smeared her blood on his raw bald head as he rose from her, still weeping, and stormed with purpose forward.

He knew what he must do to save them from themselves.

A ceremony, shining slow and beautiful in the shadow of that towering looking-glass, even as the war raged.  Doors exploded open in the vaulted hall, gentility and noble-elves set gasping at the bald and bloodied specter in the doorway, his dream mage’s orb clutched in his large strong hand.  Those who knew him did not recognize him.

“ _NO MORE!”_ He bellowed with the will of a god, the sun at his back, his eyes burning with divine rage in a face smeared with gore and tears.  The speed with which he stormed the hall, shoving elves from his way and leaving her blood on their vestments, sent cries of fear rippling through the crowd.  Those who barred him from his purpose lost their timeless lives in a flash.

He stared at himself in the eluvian, chest heaving with exertion, rage, grief.  His bloody palm reached out to rest on its reflection and he screamed a spell of his own making, the orb fire-poker hot in his hand.

The eluvians became no one’s, then, and swallowed themselves.  His people were gone.

\---

Tevinter, sleep, regret.  _Oh,_ his heart when he woke, the wretching sadness and remorse that would not leave him.  His rebellious soul twisted to hate, bitterness. 

He walked the world and hated it, less than a shadow of its former self.  He watched the shemlen in their brutishness, tasted bile at the sacrilegious ignorance of the Dalish.  Countless lifetimes passed this way, he watched the world rot with passing years.  He was determined to fix it and bided his time in doing so, as was his nature.

She gained his understanding of the inevitable rebirth of Thedas, as Mythal had tried to explain to him in his youth.  She saw him give the orb to Corypheus, and she understood. 

She saw nothing of herself.


	12. We Would All Be Better Off

The Waypoint mage bowed upon their arrival and gestured in the direction of the glade.  She walked quick and barefoot through the dewy grass of early morning, and he kept her pace.  It was strange, not having her staff.  She wondered if he felt the same. 

Her full-length robes were emerald green, unmarked by clan heraldry.  Her hair ran in a river down her back and around her shoulders.  She walked with straight-spined ease, a vision of stately serenity.

For all her grace and beauty, it was her face that caused the staring.

It was early, but countless throngs of Dalish from all over Thedas had already gathered in and around the glade.  The traditional proceedings were simple.  Keepers, Firsts, and the most respected Hahren gathered in a large seated circle on the ground.  Whosoever had the floor would stand and speak, as would those responding. 

Occasionally, a particularly interested party – say, a young elf grooming for First, or the Keeper’s favorite son – would sit in the branches of the trees edging the glade, watching.  Una had attended but one Arlathvhen in this fashion.  It had been long and boring, old men squabbling over the color of leaves hundreds of years ago, bickering over relics. 

She lost her virginity in the grass that day.  Equally boring, unfortunately.

She could see and hear right away that this would be different.  They passed through entire clans of elves in the woods before they even reached the glade – hundreds, _thousands_ of Dalish had come.   Some elves were sharing heated arguments, others were sharing laughter.  All of them stopped speaking and stared as Una and her escort passed.

The whispers rushed like a river.  Flat ear, harellan, river bastard, bare-face, savior, Inquisitor, Lady Lavellan.  She ignored them all and held her head high. Name-calling was something she had grown armor for at a very young age.

She felt Solas start at her side when a Dalish girl, maybe fifteen, materialized out of the forest and launched herself into Una’s unsuspecting arms, yelling her name with joy.   Una gave the girl a swift, tight hug.  “Veyla, _ma da’asha,_ are you being good?”

“No.”  The girl smiled up at her before turning her head to stare openly at Solas.  His piercing blue eyes held the girls face in return.  Una imagined he was noticing the half-finished vallaslin that dragged crooked across her right cheek.

Veyla’s head came to rest possessively on Una’s breast as she continued to stare at the Fademancer.  “Is this him?”

Una made a scornful sound with her tongue, flicking the girl in the ear as she untangled herself from the embrace.  Countless eyes watched through the trees.  “Veyla, rudeness does not honor you, nor does it honor my friend.  You are too old now to behave with such ignorance.”

The girl grabbed her ear and squinted back at Una before bowing slightly in Solas’ direction. “ _Aneth ara_. I’m Veyla. I already know who you are.”

He chuckled under his breath at the youth. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , Lady Veyla.”

“How did you get that scar on your face?” She touched her own forehead, tilting her head with the question.

Solas laughed again, addressing Una. “Is she yours, _ma falon_? She is certainly bold with her questions.”

Veyla interrupted, speaking over him as she pointed to their left.  “Miss Una, I gathered the scholars like you said, at the far end of the glade where no one will bother you.  Careful though, Aaran is there.  Don’t take too long, it’s starting soon and you’ll be late!  Thalis is saving my seat!”  The girl tore off, disappearing into the tree branches like a monkey.  She called as she left, “ _Dareth shiral_ , Scarface!”

Una closed her eyes and shook her head with an exasperated sigh, gesturing for Solas to follow her. “No, she is not mine, though I love her dearly enough.  Her parents were killed when she was very young.  Their loss burdens her willful manners, but she is brilliant and kind.”

“Mm, how sad.  It is obvious the girl is quite fond of you, _falon_.  I imagine she must miss you greatly.  I’m sure many in your clan do.”  He spoke to her with the ease of old friendship as he walked through the forest by her side, last night’s jarring encounters forgiven.  Perhaps it was the momentary ban on her formal title that eased his tongue.  Unfortunately, she still felt great trepidation at his presence.  He was wearing the robes she commissioned for him, and that pleased her.  She would take her victories where she could today.

She wondered how friendly he would be if he knew.

A laugh, then, as she picked up the conversation. “You are sure, are you?  It is strange to see you wrong, Solas.  A quiet moment, please, while I reflect on your infallibility.”

A puzzled look.  “I beg your pardon?”

“I may have been their First for a time, _falon_ , but Clan Lavellan does not miss me.”

“Ah.  Well, then the Dalish are greater fools than I ever imagined.”  He grew quiet for a moment, and she cursed herself.  Did she mean to sabotage her cause with her tongue?  Stupid, careless.  She must not speak ill of her people to Fen’Harel again.

He pinched her arm, she jumped.  “ _Relax_ , _falon_ , I am teasing you.  You look as though you ate a lemon.  Do your people really make you so anxious?  I do not believe I’ve ever seen you this way.  Perhaps we should go fight a dragon together instead, to make you more comfortable.”

 _No, Dread Wolf, my people do not make me so anxious_.  An absent chuckle.  “Sorry about that, friend. I have a lot on my mind. Ah, did I thank you for coming yet?”

She saw him roll his eyes and smile, looking ahead.  “Yes, _lethallan_ , you have thanked me.  Three times, in fact.  I am walking in the woods with a beautiful woman, listening to squabbles that do not concern me.   A young rascal has called me a name.  I am not so put upon today.  Your badgering gratitude is the worst of it, and even that is not so bad.”

And there was no more time for talk.  They found themselves in the midst of a small assembly of Dalish scholars, each as different from the other as the clans they hailed from, all of them excited to meet the Inquisitor.  Tongues were loose – uninvited ears hung back in the trees, harmless enough she imagined.  She had grown accustomed to celebrity in the passing months.  She saw Aaran, felt his burning glare, ignored him.  Ignoring Aaran was an _old_ skill.

The scholars were reaching out to touch her with reverence and bowed heads, unable to control their excitement at her presence.  One, an old woman, was petting her long hair as though she were an angel.  She smiled warmly at their kindnesses and embraced each of them with a kiss on the face, feeling hearts flutter with joy at her breast. _These are good elves, and the world is glad for them_. 

Solas was hanging back, leaning on a tree not so far from Aaran, content to watch.  She wondered at his thoughts.

One young elf was eager to record her words on paper, although it was far from customary to do so.  She kissed his forehead and bade him write to his heart’s content, praised him for his dedication to history. 

She sat in the cool grass surrounded by her people, holding her hand out to let them take turns touching the glowing anchor as she spoke to them of truth. 

She spoke of her bare face and the vallaslin, the unromantic truth of ancient Elvhenan’s slavery.  Passion for knowledge brought tears to many, and her hands roamed among them offering compassion, her mouth offering whispers of comfort and hope.  _Yes, it is sad truth, my beautiful people.  But it is truth, and truth is always power. Let it strengthen us. Let it bring us together._

She spoke of the future, then, taking great care lest her immortal audience grow suspicious of her knowledge.  She spoke of the deteriorating state of the world, even beyond the threat of blights and lustful magistrates.  She spoke of what she’d seen in her travels, indicators of a dark time on the rise, the urgent need for unity.

She spoke of the helpless City Elves, appealed to her people’s compassion, gauged their reactions.  They were, to the elf, in love with her, and took her words as Pantheonic gospel.

A horn blew in the near distance, timing impeccable.  She rose to her feet and they followed, eager.  The young scribe flipped through hastily written pages, piping up with a desperate squeak.  “Wait, don’t leave yet! How did you do it!”

She stopped and turned to him, hair flowing, smile honeyed and kind.  She bent to pick up a page he dropped, holding it out to him.  “How did I do what, _da’len_?”

Bold, too innocent to be shy, he reached up and ran his finger over her forehead.  She hesitated.

“I did it.”  A rustle as the group turned to stare at the heretofore invisible flat-ear standing at the outskirts of their meeting.  Her green eyes sang joy to him, she mouthed a thank you.  He nodded to her ever so slightly before their line of sight was broken by the throng of scholars, peppering him with questions about the nature of the magic.

A hand rose to stop their talking.  “The skill is mine, and mine alone.  It cannot be learned, and I cannot explain it to you.”

Silence.  The scribe materialized out of the little crowd with his papers under his arm, falling to his knees before Solas.  His face bore the symbol of Dirthamen.  His young eyes sought Solas’ gaze with a word. “ _Please._ ”

Una did not know what Solas had expected, but he was visibly taken aback by the boy.  Una marveled at his bravery, loved the boy for it.  _Sweet babe with your passion for knowledge and lore, if only I could tell you who you kneel before.  How excited would you be?  Less terrified than I, surely, with your exacting young mind._

“Young elf. Do not ask this of me lightly, for I cannot take it back.  Your face will not accept the vallaslin again.”  Spoken with such certainty – her heart ached for him, even in its fear of him.  He had seen it tried on those he’d freed, then.

The young elf’s voice rang out, clear and sure. “I believe the word of Lady Lavellan before my own Keeper.  I am not afraid.  I beseech you, remove it.”

Murmurings from the trees.  To admonish the word of a Keeper was Dalish blasphemy.  Una wished the lad had chosen his words more carefully.

“Close your eyes.” The youth complied, and Solas did not speak another word.  She watched as he removed the vallaslin, as he had done to her.  She wondered, had his expression been as stern and distant that night as it was now?

The boy opened his eyes as though his life were new, nodding and giving his thanks.  He rose and he left.  The second horn sounded and the scholars looked at her.  She bade them go, and they did. A few lingered to look at Solas with longing, but ultimately they rushed away. 

Una was in no mood to be rushed.  She excused her own tardiness, needing a moment to compose herself before she addressed the entire Arlathvhen.  Fashionable lateness made for effective grandstanding, did it not?

Solas remained with his back to the tree, giving her the space she needed.  Aaran approached her from behind as she stood collecting herself.  Her sharp ears heard his coming, but even if they hadn’t, the piercing suspicion of her companion’s icy blue eyes aiming past her would have been warning enough.

She turned to face him wordlessly.  He simply stood there, sinew tense enough to snap, glaring at her.

And then he spat in her face.

Her eyes snapped shut with stinging, and she listened.  Solas did not move – good, he intended to stay out of it.  Aaran slapped her in that moment as her eyes were closed, she allowed it to happen.  His strength had grown since last he struck her.

Her fingers rose to wipe the spittle from her eyes and she opened them, wordless and unaffected.  He seethed at her.

“ _Qunin’lathan!_ Flat-eared river bastard _bitch_ , you were _never_ Dalish.  The blasphemy of your naked face rings true, and now you mean to disgrace our people and lead them to ruin.  The Keeper should have left you to starve in the mud where she found you, we would all be better off.”  He drew a glistening ironbark hunting knife, his eyes puddles of pain and anger.  “I will be a hero among the clan if I kill you myself!”

She did not react to the blade, but held his gaze in silence.  He moved to strike her.  Aaran _was_ quite fast, but she caught his wrist and held it.  The anchor pulsed warm against his skin, and he looked down at it in disgust as she spoke to him.

“Aaran.  Stop this foolishness.  You are better than this.”

She shoved him back a step then, and he spit at the ground.  She knew he only yielded because he knew he could not best her.

Aaran was not finished embarrassing himself, however. He dropped the knife and grabbed her hair roughly, pulled her face up to his and kissed her unwilling lips with force, his tongue prying, his free hand grabbing her buttocks possessively. 

The domination only lasted for a moment.  She swept his legs out from under him as she shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back with a snarl.

“ _Ar'din nuvenin na'din, Aaran_. Stay down, you flubbing idiot. I am not a budding tomboy to be taken anymore.”

She spat and wiped her dour mouth on the back of her hand as she turned to walk away from him.  She stole a look at Fen’Harel’s face.  He had seen the whole thing, of course.  He was not looking at her – he was looking at Aaran, his eyes full of scorn.  Una waved her hand dismissively as she left the clearing, headed for the glade.  “Leave him, Solas.  He is troubled, he may find sense one day.  We are late.”


	13. He Wondered Who Was Worse

He was a shadow marveling as he watched the scholars worship her.  For all his godliness, he ruefully ached to join them in stroking her flowing mane and whispering to her as they did.   _You are divine benevolence. You are inspirational. Guide me, for you are my savior._  

No, to worship her was not enough.  He yearned to stand by her side as an equal, to bear her burdens and whisper his own, to gain free-flowing access to her loving, compassionate grace.  He wished his longing to be her mate would leave him as he bade it. He grew so very tired of his heart’s persistent nagging. He was not  _meant_ to have a mate, he reminded himself.  He thought of the joy Lessa's memory still brought him, and he doubted himself.

He watched her share the anchor as a generous child shares candy, delighting in the gift and leaving nothing for herself.  Her hand outstretched in the thick of them, smiling with love as they touched it, touched her.  Most would covet and protect such power as though it could be plucked from the hand like a loosely-guarded sovereign.

Who _is_ this woman kissing foreheads like a saint, sharing power like a peeping chick in hand as she speaks of unity the likes of which this world has never seen?

Vexingly unpredictable.  A capacity beyond comprehension for tenderness, forgiveness.  A fierce, indomitable will to spread the truth and eradicate evil from the world.  The way she came through the Fade with such brute force, unscathed.  The way she fought.  The way her very _existence_ grabbed his attention like a burning beacon.

She was like a god.

His mind had grappled this implausible notion for months.  Even as he courted her in earnest, he picked at her identity with lupine cunning and found her beyond reproach.  That day on her balcony, asking after the anchor’s effects on her personality – the befuddled way she looked at him.  No, silly, I have always been this way.  How else is there to be?

In the end, his mind made due with blaming his afflicted heart.  A love ballad heard in passing one day as he journeyed with her through a muddy little town, attributing god-like grace to the shoemaker’s daughter.  He half-listened to the song as he watched the Inquisitor speaking with a villager about his dying wife.  _That is all, lovesick cur.  Your pining heart is spinning tales_.

Still, sometimes he wondered.  If he watched her eyes when she tore rifts from the sky, he would wonder.  When he saw the way she could tower over a wicked man three times her size, bidding him cower on his own dais… _hmm._ He wondered.  Each time he witnessed the surprising ease with which she sat in judgment, yes, he would wonder.  Just last night, her fearlessness in the face of a raging god left him wondering.

The questions would come, and time and time again he would halt them with self-admonishment, remembering the song.

_You make a god of her, old fool, because your soul is ashamed of its love for a mortal woman.  She was in the right place at the right time, and that is all there is._

He wondered at her nature now as he looked into the kneeling boy’s eyes, shining with faith in her infallibility.  He could feel Una’s satisfaction like a breeze across the clearing as he unmarked the young scholar’s face.  When the boy opened his eyes again, the emotions glistening there brought back ancient memories of tragedy and war.  _May your freedom last longer than others I’ve liberated, da’len._

The second horn, the elves all left, remainder only three.  He watched what he presumed to be a lover’s spat with calm blue eyes, unjealous and unconcerned.  Actually, he found this glimpse into her former life to be quite a charming novelty.

His ears pricked. The word "qunin" was not true Elvish, and he wondered what it meant.  _River bastard_. He had heard it in the woods, wondered at it, dismissed it as trending slang for flat-ears like himself.  The way he heard it now, he knew he had been mistaken.  The term was special, an insult just for her.  Through context he learned of her lonely origin.  Family was a topic she was loath to discuss, and he now saw why.  His mind, reveling in its sleuthing pastime, found this news quite curious.

The rapacious kiss came then, and his eyes hardened as he watched.  Her words to him as she spat his uninvited saliva from her mouth made Fen’Harel clench his teeth.  _I am not a budding tomboy to be taken anymore_.

He had many thoughts at once, as gods do.  He remembered his sweet Lessa and the countless others like her, men and women both.  In the later years of Elvhenan, to be had against one’s will was as common to a slave as a rainy afternoon.  It was a matter of note among his peers, in fact, that young Solas never forced himself on anyone.  To the rest of them, it was no more abhorrent than plucking ripe fruit from a tree.  Even then he found it unsettling.

He pictured a young Una with mud in her soft yellow hair, tears on her mark’d cheeks, her face and breasts bruising on the ground.  This vile, stinking, shem-blooded elf rutting inside of her, unwashed and unloving.

He saw himself then, the selfish way he thrashed her gentle heart.  The kisses he stole from her lips, the caresses he stole from her soft, supple body. The hope and expectation he cultivated in her, just to snatch it from her grasp and throw it in the mud. He saw himself screaming in her face just hours ago, saw himself strike her cheek with might.

He glared at the wretch sprawled on the ground, and he wondered who was worse.

_Mythal, that you were here to soothe the hound who hunts alone.  I find I hate myself._


	14. The Eyes of All the Dalish Watched Her Leave

When she set foot in the cloud-addled sun of the glade, droves of Dalish fell silent and parted.  She fixed her gaze in front as bare feet carried her across an ocean of trampled grass and tattooed faces – some curious, some adoring, some scornful.

She approached the inner circle where expressions mattered more.  The eyes of every Keeper and First in Thedas weighed heavy on her courage, as she had imagined they would.  The scholars had been easy, hungrily lapping her truths like pups at a saucer of fresh milk. _This_ would not be easy.  She felt she would rather stare down Corypheus’ blighted dragon than this gathering of clan leaders.

While the age and sex of Keepers and Firsts did vary, an overwhelming majority of them were male elves, her seniors by a lifetime or more.  There was a pecking order here, tension generations old.  Many of these Keepers were loath to share air with one another.  She meant to make brothers of them all.

_I must not let them see my fear._

A strength she did not understand came surging in her as she took her final steps into the Circle of Elders.  A few beats as she puzzled, feeling her heart lub with confidence. 

Solas was squeezing her hand. A supporting glow of faith coursed through her body.  She was not aware he possessed such a skill.

He whispered as he let her go. “You _will_ win, _lethallan_ , and I will watch you shine as I always have.”

Her heart soared with his words, and for a time she did not fear him.  She could kiss him, in fact.

She felt him fall back to stand with the Keepers, found herself encircled by dozens of expectant, judging faces.  No one spoke, but they all continued to stand.  It was tradition for the listeners to sit before a speech began.  She did not care.  The silence did not last for long.

Her voice rang loud and clear.  Her eyes roamed from face to face as she spoke, engaging individuals, commanding attention.  Even the halla were listening.  “My friends.  I am Una Lavellan, and I have no right to call you here today.  To the last elf, the powerful men and women I see before me all have reason to bear me hate.  My face is naked and blasphemous, I watch as the sight of me offends you to the elf.  I abandoned my post as First to play at demigod with shemlen, sleeping in a feathered bed and bidding others do my hunting.  For this, you rightly bear me scorn.

Keeper Fernin. A clan rivalry as old as the trees we gather in makes my very name a curse to you. 

Keeper Lamli. I fed broken glass to your favorite dog when you came to parlay with my Keeper.  He whimpered as he lay dying, and I had not the courage to end the suffering I started.  You found us both on the ground behind an aravel, the beast dead, my tongue cursed with lies you knew not to believe when you looked upon my wicked face.”

Keeper Lamli, a stern-faced elf with graying hair, folded his arms at his chest.  He would forever be remembered as the first to address her on this day.  “You were but an unwitting child making believe, _da’len_ , and you wept on the beast’s grave for days.  It was an innocent mistake.  I have forgiven it.”

She inclined her head to him, her tone grave and earnest. “Your forgiveness is a divine grace, Keeper Lamli, and it warms my heart with gratitude. Thank you.”

She sank slowly to her knees then, entreating.  Hair spilled around her shoulders as she turned her face towards the ground, her hands folded in her lap. “Elders. I appear before you an unwitting child still, and terrified by nightmares. Bare-faced and humble I beg forgiveness of you all, and I plead with you to hear me with ears untainted by hate.  

I have learned truths in my travels.  Truths regarding the past and future of our people.  Truths that make me fear for not only my clan, but for _all_ of us. 

I did not gather you here to tell you how to think, what to do – I would not _dare_ , for you are all of you my betters.  I ask only that you consider the virtue of forgiveness as you listen. That you have gathered here today gives me hope beyond describing.  It speaks volumes to the gracious virtue of our people, and it is more than I deserve.  I thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. If you will hear me, please, sit and be comfortable.  I would not have you stand.”

A kind-faced Keeper named Madrin broke the circle to approach the kneeling Inquisitor.  The muted crowd looked on.  “Una Lavellan.  You speak as though you grow too far from us, but did you not come on swift wings to save my people when I sent for you?” 

A murmuring.  The Keeper looked out to the crowd while Una kept her head down. 

“You hear rumors of holes in the veil?   My dead clansmen in the ground sing the truth of it!  No sooner did I send for her than Lady Lavellan appeared, banishing hell from the sky like a _god_.” 

A gesture to Solas, standing quiet and still among them.  “She came with the flat-ear, a durgen’len, a shemlen.  To see them fight, it was…I tell you.  We are _fools_ if we do not listen. 

Stand up, Una Lavellan.  We will hear you.”

In that moment, they were hers.  The sound of hundreds moving to sit in the grass and pay her heed – not just the Keepers and Firsts, but everyone gathered – thrummed in the air like the beating wings of low-flying geese.  She rose to her feet, her robe damp with dewy dark spots from kneeling in the grass.

The time for ostentatious supplication was over.  Her strong voice boomed for every elf to hear.

“I tell you this, and it is true.  The Elvhen made slaves of their own long before the first shemlen came to shining Arlathan.  The mark on your face is a symbol of claimed property.  As we paint our halla to please Ghilan'nain before a journey, so our Elvhen masters marked our faces as an offering.”

The protests came like a typhoon, offended voices demanding evidence. Her palm in the air bade them stop as she bellowed.

“I will not debate the truth with you!  Short of rending the veil in twain before you and guiding you to deaths untimely and most unnatural, I cannot show you the truths I have seen.  Weigh you the nature of my character and decide for yourselves.  The Dalish are a thinking people, and I expect nothing less.  Any who wish to remove the vallaslin need only seek me out.

I speak now of a future which I cannot claim to see outright, but find evidence of in everything I do.  Please, trust me when I tell you change is in the wind.  More, I cannot say.  If the Dalish hope to survive, we must unite.  That you are all here means it is possible. 

Follow Keeper Lamli’s lesson and forgive old hurts, my people.  Set aside your differences and love one another.  Make your minds, and soon, or we _will_ lose everything. 

I will call you together again once I have dealt with the monster who threatens our world.  I leave you now to talk amongst yourselves without fear of my hearing.”

She walked with purpose from the center of the glen, and as before, the people parted for her.  Solas moved to follow her.  Adrenaline carried her exit with a force and might much different from her stately, flowing entrance.  Enamored, no elf moved or spoke.  The eyes of all the Dalish watched her leave.


	15. Unthinkable Offense

As the pair breached the outskirts of the crowd in the trees, he could hear the arguments begin to swell.  Una was moving fast, and she did not address him.  He kept the back of her head in the corner of his eye as he scanned the area.  Her words had been strong, and anything could happen. Solas would marvel at her oratory skills later.  For now, the wolf in him longed to be rid of these crowds.

Veyla dropped from a tree in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere.  She was holding out her hand for him to stop.  He obliged and looked down at the girl, taken aback.  Though she had tears on her face, her eyes were cold and hard.  The expression was very familiar.  She pointed at the unfinished vallaslin on her face, her voice stern, determined.

“ _Get it off of me_ , Scarface.”

Solas furrowed his brow.  He placed his soft hands on her hot wet face as he beheld her.  He imagined her sitting on a treestump with her hands clenched and sweating, jerking her head with a scream when she could no longer endure the torturous pain of blood writing.  Her very reflection a constant reminder of her own weakness, marking her as a child. The only thing others could see.

_No creature deserves so much senseless pain, and to endure such is no mark of maturity.  I pray my determined goddess will succeed in putting a stop to this madness._

“ _Da’len_.  How do you know to approach me for this?  Did Una tell you?”

One blunt nod.  Her lips were quivering.

Una had officially left him behind, but Solas was certain she would want this.  His thumbs wiped at falling tears beneath the young woman’s olivine eyes.  “Are you certain this is what you want, Veyla?  It cannot be undone.”

She glared into his face and trembled, nodding sternly.  He took his hands from her face and leaned down to wrap one arm around the girl’s waist, pressing his cheek against hers to align their lines of sight.  He pointed in front of them, indicating a certain tree.

He whispered to her, his voice smooth like honey. “ _Da’vhenan_ , you are very brave.  Do you see that tree, Veyla, the one that bows to touch the ground?”  She nodded, more gently this time. He felt the girl leaning into him so slightly, hungry for love and help.  He squeezed her arm as he spoke. “Go sit beneath it for me, child. I will remove your vallaslin.”

He rose to his feet and followed the girl as she rushed breathless towards the tree.  She threw herself at the ground in front of it, scrambling to press her back against its slender trunk.  Her eyes followed him beseechingly. _Please! Please! You are not moving fast enough!_  

He knelt before her, grass stains on his knees. His voice purred to soothe. “Close your eyes, _da’vhenan_ , and do not be afraid.  This magic does not hurt, it only tingles.  It bears no resemblance to the pain you endured before. I promise.”

The girl closed her eyes obediently, still shaking with fear. In seconds the thing was done.  Solas left his hands resting on her hot cheeks to comfort her.  “There.  I do not have a mirror to show you, Veyla, but the vallaslin is gone forever.”

Her eyes snapped open and she smiled at him.  Wide and shining, the young lady had a heart-stealing smile.  She was still silently crying. “Good. Now, take me with you.”

He was not surprised. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he eyed her up, chuckling and shaking his head.  He rose to his feet and pointed in the direction of the Arlathvhen. “That is not for me to decide, Veyla, and I am sure you know that.  I will entreat the Inquisitor to speak with you before she departs for Skyhold, if she has not already done so.  For now, I think it best for you to return to your people.”

She made a sour face at him, stuck out her tongue and scampered off as quickly as she had come.  Her abrupt departure left him blinking.  Another chuckle as he brushed grass from his breeches. 

He turned and walked with purpose in the direction Una had gone, wondering how far she made it in the time he spent with Veyla.  The sun was high in the sky and the clouds had seemingly cleared, causing thick verdant leaves to glow green above his head. 

Distance stretched the noise of the clansmeet down to nothing as he followed his efforts to track Una’s steps.  It seemed she had passed the untended waystone, continuing deeper into the woods.  He was surprised and a little concerned that he had not yet caught up with her; she must have been running.

He caught a glimpse of carved gray stone ahead through the trees.  Those statues the Dalish erected at the edges of their territory to keep themselves nervous.   It was no surprise that this tradition, rooted in half-truths about the nature of his character, miffed Solas.

He quickened his pace when he saw her golden hair on the ground in front of the statue. 

“Una!” He called, rushing to her, wondering why she was on the ground, worrying something had happened to her, though he had no rational idea of what it could be. 

She made no response as he approached, and his confusion grew as he drew close to her.  She was… _praying_.  She knelt with her forehead and palms in the grass, feverishly whispering an ancient Elvish verse of beseechment.

His heart stopped as he watched her, gaping openly down at her lithe body prostrate on the ground.

Things stayed this way for an unmeasured time.  He thought nothing, only a white blindness and deafening screeching inside his head as he stared at her.  Suddenly, she lifted her face from the ground to look up at him.  He could see the imprints of the grass on her forehead where the vallaslin had been.

Her hands gently reached up and circled his wrists as she turned on her knees.  She brought her forehead down to touch his hands.  She was _crying_. Her body trembled, as did her voice. 

“Old Fadewalker, I know and do not fear you.  I have seen the truth of what you aspire to do, and I would help you do it.  Make a deal with me.”

He felt an indescribable violation in his very soul.  His nature, when discovered, was to run – but he would not flee from her.  His mind cried out with searing white heat, _THIS CANNOT BE, IT IS NOT RIGHT! HOW DO YOU KNOW ME?_ He did not breathe. He did not speak.

A breath. His eyes hardened as he looked down on her, his wrists limp in her grasp.  His voice was commanding, scornful, all-knowing, furious. “You say you do not fear me, Knower, and yet you tremble like a lamb before me.”

“I tremble for my people, Fen’Harel. Spare them.  I will get you what you want, I will _deliver_ it to you.  I have seen what you will do, and I have seen the things that others intend to do should you fail.”

His response was ominous.  “You are lying, _Dali’len._ I smell your fear of me. Through what deceit do you come to know me?”

She made no answer.  Still, she trembled.  He towered over her, merciless, his loving heart shocked to blackness with her unthinkable offense.  He snapped at her in a murderous rage.

_“SPEAK, ASHA!”_

She cringed, terror-stricken.  He could hear her heart working itself to death.  Her voice stuttered and shook. “I, I tricked you with the wine, I read the books, I – “

He snarled and jerked his wrists from her grasp.  The force sent her sprawling to the ground.  He paced in a fury, holding his head as he uttered unearthly wailing sounds of manic, feral vehemence, like a wolf caught in a bear trap.

The faintest whisper from the furthest corner of his heart. _Leave now, Dread Wolf, or you will kill her.  That is not what you want._

He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dali'len - child of the Dalish


	16. Have the Rest

Never in her life had Una known such fear.  She trembled on the ground where he left her, whimpering in terror. The hair around her face was wet with sweat, her entire body blanched, cold, sopping.  Leaf-dappled sunlight danced on her suffering frame.

The Inquisitor had shown her hand and lost.  _I have failed my people, I have failed the world. I have lost everything_.

So hard, coming this far.  _So much work_.  Moving mountains to bring her people together, risking life and limb across barren wastelands and murderous swamps, swigging daily poison to best the hour glass that plagued her.

She cried out with twisting pains in her belly, clutching at her robes as she pressed her cheek to lupine granite.  _This is it, then.  Fen’Harel will torture me to death from the inside. He will watch in fulfilled silence from the shadows as I heave my own entrails from my mouth onto his likeness. He will sever the hand from my corpse, and he will butcher my people and the shemlen like underbred cattle to carve a place for his kin._

She wretched blood-tinged bile on a massive paw of stone, gagging with sobs as she cradled her stomach. 

She wondered then if the anchor would even _work_ without her.  Wondered if he would kill her and occupy her body for his gain, wondered if he could.  A glimmering hope, a desperate bargaining chip.  She croaked her words, her cheek and the side of her hair slick with her own acrid sick against the stone.

“Do not kill me yet, swift and wrathful god.  You cannot defeat your monster without me.”

No answer.  No luck.

Her suffering mind, in spite of itself, took shelter in loving memories.  The hollows of his cheeks when he sucked honey from his fingers at breakfast.  The way his standoffish demeanor gave way to kindness and brotherhood again and again as he grew to know the members of the Inquisition.  His unbridled laughter when they shared private company.  The warmth of his embrace just last night, the tears on his face for Mayren, the soothing lullabies in his lungs for her.  The way he stroked her hair, unaware of the secrets she had stolen.

She remembered with despair the total lack of her presence in his mind when he sipped her treacherous wine.  She wretched emptily again, eyes bloodshot, cheeks sallow, ears ringing. 

_None of it was real._

Every time he walked away from her, The Dread Wolf carved a hunk of her soul to take.  He had been cutting away at her, piece by piece, for months.  Today, here in the sun beneath his statue, he would have the rest.


	17. What is this "Everything" to You?

He crashed through brambles and ferns a graceless juggernaut, heedless of direction.  He longed for the sweet emotional reprieve of his primal form, but didn’t dare – he knew in his heart that the slighted wolf would turn on heels and tear her throat out.  He longed to sleep or rip a hole in the veil, to launch himself bodily into the comfort of the Fade, but also, he did not dare – his massive soul in such a state, demons of rage and hate would fall upon him in legions.

So he ran.  He ran beyond an hour, tireless and swift, a god trapped by the machinations of one woman who would stop at nothing to know everything.  The creatures of the forest knew his smell, and afforded the raging wolf a wide berth.

The grass beneath his feet gave way to sharp, shifting hunks of flint as he came upon a thin and whispering waterfall secluded in the woods.  His rushing slowed as he became aware of his surroundings, numbly staring at the crystal clear stream ambling off to his right as his chest heaved with exertion.  He sneezed violently, recognizing the offending herbal stench of catmint.  A fine-tuned sense of smell and a well-placed scorching surge made quick work of the plant in question. 

The abrupt change of pace was enough – his flailing heart began to grasp for calm.

The substrate lacerated his bare feet like glass as Solas walked out into the plunge pool, moving in a trance.  Clear and icy water rose to his knees, his waist, his chest, higher – he stopped when the water filled his ringing ears, upturning his face into the burning sun with his eyes closed.  He listened to the swirling impact of water falling into itself, felt his pulse in his ears and his throat.

His guarded heart opened, timid as the first morning glory of a chilly spring morning, and he thought of Lessa.

They used to bathe together, always in the same place, a foggy waterfall tucked away in the cranny of a verdant valley.  A soft smile moved his lips as he remembered the way her garnet-colored hair would flow on the surface of the water, shining in the moonlight.  He could see her eyes, bright as a fawn’s as she beheld him.  He could feel her small wet hand on his jaw.  He could hear her giggling voice, light and high like a child’s.

“Solas.  Your body is meant for gilded bathhouses of marble and steam, not the cold and muddy-toed bathing of a slave.  Why do you come here with me?”

His loving fingers slid wet and slick into her hair as he pulled her close, their touching bodies taut with cold.  “My body is meant for _you_ , Lessa, and there is no greater finery.  I pity them, bathing high on their lonely mountains when the greatest beauty in all of Elvhenan stands before me in the wilds below, her clothes in the moss at my back.”  He brought his lips close to hers, whispering against her grinning mouth. “I would not trade the gift of bathing with you for anything.  I love and need you more than air, _ma’vhenan_.”

His heart sang with joy as he remembered that kiss, the way she cooed at him, taking him by the hand to lead him from the water as she had done countless times before but would never do again.  Every moment spent with her gave him endless memories to cherish – the beauty of her body as she stepped free of the water before him, hair clinging to her breasts, gooseflesh bumpy and wonderful under his soft touch.  Whether they were plotting bloody revolution or making gasping love in the moonlight, never in his life had Solas felt so whole as he did with Lessa at his side.

He opened his eyes and stared into the afternoon sun, exhaling long and slow from his nose.  Regret and trepidation crept into his mind.  He wished Mythal were here to give him counsel, for rebellious Fen’Harel could be so very bad at guiding himself.  He tried, using the inspiration of Mythal’s glowing celestial body to guide him in chastising his heart.

_So she knows you, old wolf.  What does that change?  What do you stand to lose by trusting her, by allowing her to know you?_

_Everything.  She changes **everything**.  I will lose everything._

_And what is this “everything” to you, compared to the glimmering hope of her companionship?  Did gentle Lessa teach you nothing, dog?  What life is this, to rot alone in worry and regret for all eternity?_

_It is duty to me.  It is my responsibility to right the terrible wrongs I have visited upon this crumbling world. Upon the gods. Upon my people._

_So sayeth the moody, flea-bit mongrel.  And who says it is your duty to do this alone?_

_Punishment. It is my punishment to be alone. I made these mistakes, and I alone must fix them._

_Oh, you sicken me with your useless self-indulgent suffering, like some forlorn mewling chantry maiden.  Look at yourself, standing here, lost in memories of love as you so often are.  Why is it so inconceivable that you were **meant** to love?  What_ **_is_** _rebellion, cur, without a love of people?_ _Do_ _not let yourself be made by legends of your friendlessness.  Accept that people here and now are real, gods damn you, and love them._

_But I have deceived her so much, told her so many lies.  How can she help but hate me for what I have done, both to her and to the world she loves?_

_If you question this woman's capacity to forgive and absolve, then you never deserved to love her.  Go to her, stubborn old cur, and beg forgiveness for a lifetime’s chance you may have very well already ruin’d with your sniveling pride._

He dunked his head into the chilly water then, his eyes burning with immaterial grit from glaring at the sun.  Water ran in rivers from his clothes as he gained the flinty bank, his feet leaving a trail of wet and blood.  His face and shoulders set in determination, Solas followed his own footfalls back the way he came.


	18. Wait and See

_Tired_ , he was tired.  He was not used to experiencing emotions as intensely as he had these past two days and he did not sleep last night, had not eaten all day.  The drain of the concentrated magic required to remove the vallaslin, combined with the exertion of trundling through the woods like a madman, left Fen’Harel mortally exhausted. 

Mythal’s sun hung low in the sky and with its leaving came a chill, rising from the very earth to nip at fleshy toes.  Solas had energy enough left to dull the sharp pains in his feet but not to heal his cuts, and out of respect for the sanctity of their purpose here he had packed nothing on his person.  An hour of fast running made for hours of hitch’d walking, his aching lacerations caked with soil.  He ruefully reflected on how light-footed he would be if he weren’t so weak from slumber ages long.  It would be dark long before he reached the waystone.

He must be near the statue now, for her sweet scent whispered at his nose.  He was certain she had returned to Skyhold…and then, upon reflection he was not so certain.  His lady was stubborn. She may very well be there still obstinately praying, her lips chapped and bleeding, her throat hoarse.

He stopped himself from speculating.  Solas had learned one lesson through brutal repetition: No matter what he guessed of her, he was never right.  He must only wait and see.

Another smell then, sour and sharp, the smell of foodless wretching.  _The venuth, it is finally hitting her.  She has abused it for over a month – Damn me. I must find her, for she is in a bad way.  I should have never left her here._ The pain of his stride fell from his perception as he sped his labored steps with worry. 

He broke the small clearing.  Yes, she was gone, and there the statue stood.  If she was in a state to vomit blood as she had, she could not have made it far.  He stood in the dark beneath winking stars and listened.  Nothing.  It was too dark now to see which way she’d gone, and he would not take a chance in assuming his capricious friend was headed for the waystone.

He concentrated hard on his desire to find and help her, clinging to the thought as one takes a deep breath before diving.  Powered with will and adrenaline, Fen’Harel became the sleek beast depicted before him in stone.

Smells jumped in a high-definition kaleidoscope of meanings, white ears keen as legend scanned the woods.  His quarry was just there, half way t’wixt wolf and waystone.  Fen’Harel leaned down to take a passing lap at a burning paw, irritated but unimpeded.  He took soft pooling fabric in his great jaws and trotted for the treeline, making an unhurried beeline for his charge as the mage’s robes he carried dragged the ground.


	19. With Every Beat, for Months and Months

Una was crawling.  She accepted after repeated attempts that she was too weak, too racked with pain to stand and walk.  The thistles stinging in her arms and shins were nothing compared to the pain in her stomach.  Detritus matted her hair, brambles scratched her face.  In spite of all, every inch of her rejoiced for living.

Fear had stayed her leaving for hours; she had been too terrified to move, compelled by her imagination to wait for the inevitable vengeance of the god standing feet away, taking jabs at her guts.  Judgment never came, and over hours the shock of terror at his scorn turned to steely determination.

_I may have failed today, but I have my life and will make use of it. I must return to Skyhold. Though the dread beast may snap my neck at any moment, though my insides twist and kill me, I will not stop until my death or peaceful Thedas. I faced Corypheus and lived.  What is one more angry god? Let the terror of my childhood come, for I am not afraid. I have endured worse suffering than this, and I can handle thrice._

Her pluck helped her crawling, for _gods_ , did she suffer.  The muscles in her throat and chest ached with endless wretching, and blood speckled her face.  She would stop and lay on her side, feeling her careening belly, certain living rats were clawing and eating at her beneath her skin. 

The pain in her stomach was not all that gave her pause.  A sluggishness that blurred her vision and thickened her blood loomed behind her eyes.  _I must not sleep, I may die if I sleep_.  _I must return to Skyhold.  Just a little further, Una, to the feather bed you have denied for weeks. Just a little further, and your friends will move the world to save you._

Shaking, she rose to her arms and knees once more, continuing her grueling progress forward.

Fen’Harel moved like a ghost, his paws made not a sound.  A loud and sniffing snout wet against her ear made her cry out in surprise, jerking her head.  Blurry, bloodshot green eyes glowered through a matted curtain of gold and twigs at the white wolf before her.  The beast dropped robes beside her, panting gently.  His hot breath in her face smelled fresh as spring. Though she bade her voice ring strong and hard, her words were cracked and croaking in her raw throat.

“So. Finally, you come to kill me.  Do you tire of watching me suffer, Dread Wolf, or do you just grow hungry?  ‘Eh? Am I to be your snack tonight, you fucking cur?”

He smacked his tongue and whined softly, resumed his panting.  His white teeth and thin black lips glistened.  His blue eyes glowed in the night, the eyes of a killing thing, staring at her with a wild simplicity.

He was the most breathtaking thing she had ever seen.  Hours ago, the sight of him would have emptied her bladder with fear.  She was too tired and racked with pain to care. Again, she croaked.

“ _Fine_ , stupid mutt.  If you will not kill me, stay out of my way _._ ”  She clawed the earth and resumed her trembling efforts with a grunt, ignoring the beast of ages at her side.  She did not see that he became a kneeling elf, milky skin pale and glowing in the moonlight.  His hand reached out to grab the fabric over the small of her back, bidding her stop her crawling.  She barely recognized his gentle voice filled with sorrow, such had his screaming rage at being discovered left an imprint on her heart.

“Una. _Ma emma harel’din_. Please, stop.  Let me carry you.”

Now hers was the raspy voice of righteous, godly scorn.  She pulled with all her might against his grasping hand on her robes, a toothless dog feeble in her passionate defiance.  “I _tire_ of your games.  You offer me aid, you offer me rage.  You offer me comfort, you control and strike me.  Do not scorn my people as ignorant, you conceited bastard, for they pegged you true.  Your love, your friendship, your will to help the world:  Everything you were to me is a _lie_.  You have done nothing but _use_ me since I met you, and I will suffer it no longer.

If you want to kill me, Fen’Harel, fucking _kill_ me.  Otherwise get your filthy hands _off_ me, and don’t you _ever_ hinder me again, or I swear I will kill you myself and have your hide tanned and burned. _Go away_ , “Solas”, whoever you are. I bid you rot, and I do not believe or need your _fucking_ help.”

His hand left her with a quickness that made her crawling, crippled heart lub smugly just.  _That’s **right**_ **.** _Leave me alone._  She heard him rise to his feet with a pained and tired sigh, she heard a rustling of cloth, and she ignored it all.  She maintained what dignity she could in pressing on, though she felt she would collapse any moment.  Her stomach bade her hiss through cracking, clenching teeth.  She willed involuntary muscle spasms to quit their wretched gagging with a deep breath and hard swallowing.

He gingerly plucked her from the ground like a wounded dove, and before she could speak he was walking in a rush.  She was a ragdoll in his arms, helpless to stop him.  Her writhing and beating on his chest were boneless.  The loss of control unnerved her, set her every fiber screaming worse than the pain in her bowels.  He tightened his grip on her as she snarled, her voice growing faint with despair and exhaustion.

“Put me _down_ , where are you _taking_ me? Stop it, gods damn you, _stop it!_ No more, I want no more of you! Leave me _alone_!”

She was left with no recourse but to glare hatefully up at his face.  His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark with worry and purpose as he rushed through the woods.  He spoke, and she hated his voice, hated his lips, wanted to rip off his face and feed it to worms.

“Una, I deserve your rage and more.  There is not enough air in the world for all the apologies I would make to you.  I beg of you, give yourself to sleep.  You must stop fighting it, _ma’vhenan,_ the bleeding in your stomach will get worse.”

She sobbed in rage as her head fell weak and unwilling against his chest.  She was wilting like a vase of dying flowers in his arms, and she hated herself for it. Her quivering voice faded with his steps.  “How _dare_ you call me that. How dare you act as though you care for me, the things you’ve done to me.  I have seen your mind, and you do not think of me.”  She trembled and her eyes slid closed unbidden.  She wretched blood on his neck and was not sorry. “You are a _liar_.”

He scoffed bitterly as he jumped over a slender fallen tree trunk.  She could feel his voice vibrating with his steps, willing her to sleep.  “If you think I would use and kill you, Una _,_ that dark old magic you dredged up has not shown you everything of me. Yes, I am a monster and a liar. But my wicked heart has loved and worshipped you with every beat for months and months. I would suffer a thousand deaths lest harm befall you, for you are more darling to me than all the world. 

 _Please_ , Una, go to sleep.  You can skin me and tan my hide when you wake up.  I will await your punishment, and even as you butcher me, I will be relieved to see my love recovered in her strength.”

At some point during his entreaty, she blacked out.

\---

His neck was cold with her bile and blood, the stench of it filled his nose.  He felt her body go limp in his arms.  _Finally, she sleeps.  The waypoint is just here. I must get her to bed._

Solas was not surprised to find Veyla standing at the waystone, watching his approach in expectant silence.  He sighed, exasperated. “ _Da’asha_ , the two of you will be the death of me.  I am not in the mood to argue with you, girl.  Come, put your hand –“  She placed her hand in the correct place for travel, flattening her eyes at him as if he were stupid.  He sighed again and placed his hand over hers without another word, sending them flashing into the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma emma harel’din = You should not fear me / don't be afraid


	20. I See Myself in You

His ravaged feet rejoiced to kiss the cold hard stone of Skyhold.  He turned his head, a flash of relief in his mind – Varric was melted in a chair before the hearth of the massive hall, exhausted and covered in dusty sand. A flagon in hand rested on his knee. His head was tilted back, eyes closed.

He woke with a fright that sent foamy brew spilling to the floor when Solas hollered at him from the other end of the cavernous hallway.  “ _Varric!_   Bring Dorian, quickly!”

Varric shook his head roughly as he attempted to gain his senses, amber eyes turning to glare at and admonish his friend. “Maker _damn_ you, Sol– “

Recognition and horror washed over Varric’s face like lightening when he saw the limp and dirty blonde-headed figure Solas clutched, and his tongue caught in his throat.  The dwarf scrambled madly to his feet, knocking back his chair.  Heavy expedition boots rushed with a speed denied his kin as Varric threw back the requisite door with a slam, gaining the stairs with an urgency guided by love for his friend.

Veyla, in her selfish youth, had been so set on her mission to ride Solas’ coattails to Skyhold that she completely failed to notice Una’s state.  The girl jabbered with fright now as she followed the rushing mage up the stairs to Una’s chambers, momentarily blind to the wonders of a fortress the likes of which her eyes had never seen.  The more she talked, the more panicked and screechy her voice became.

“Wait, what’s going on?!  Scarface, is Miss Una okay? What _happened_ , did someone get her?  Did Aaran do this?! Can you help her, is she dying? Don’t let her _die!_ Save her, you have to _save_ her, you know magic, _do_ something!”

“Girl, shut _up!_ ”  Solas snapped at her hysterics as he rushed across the pitch black threshold of Una’s room and lay her on her bed.  His snarling tone was much more effective on 15 year old girls than it was on the Inquisitor.

Feet pounded the stairs in haste as Dorian exploded into the room with a candle, the dusty Varric hard on his heels.  Dorian’s hair was a mess, he wore a quilted sleeping robe.  He was at Una’s side in an instant, lighting her fireplace with a flamboyant flick of his wrist as he passed.  Those logs had never seen a match.

“Look away, both of you.  Solas, what am I dealing with?” His voice was hard and efficient, all business.  Those who knew him only in passing would be surprised at Dorian’s composure under pressure. Dorian cut her robes up the front with one swift pass of a blade as he surveyed her – aside from the signs of her crawling and the fact that she was out cold, the dried blood on her mouth and face were the only indication of a problem. 

The two men complied immediately, Varric’s amber eyes staring up at Solas on his right.  All of their hearts were racing.  Veyla stood loudly sobbing at the foot of the bed, her hands gripping Una’s dirty feet.  Solas spoke over her tears, his back to the bed.

“She is bleeding internally, the stomach and bowel, and I do not think she has been eating.  The Inquisitor has been taking _venuth_ every night for a fortnight past two months.”

“ _Kaffas,_ ” Dorian hissed under his breath, a glancing glare of disgust and fury at the speaking elf as his glowing hands rushed to Una’s forehead and belly.  His eyes returned to his charge, his countenance severe.  Veyla was screeching at him to take his filthy _shemlen_ hands off of her.

Varric was still staring at Solas, worry and consternation in his voice.  “What the _hell_ are you two talking about?  Did she overdose on some kind of drug?”

Varric did not get his answer, for Dorian snapped, “Solas, get your sobbing mongrel elf kit out of here!”

Solas did not turn around for sake of Una’s nudity. His tone, while not without compassion, brooked no argument. “Veyla.  Go down the stairs to Una’s throne. Sit there, girl, and wait for me.  Do nothing else.”

Veyla leaned over Una’s feet and squeezed them to her chest. “No! I won’t leave her, you can’t let some _shemlen_ help her! He’ll ki-“

Before she could finish, Solas turned with eyes downcast in chivalry to snatch Veyla roughly by the shirt and hurl her bodily towards the top of the stairs. “ _Now._ Do not _ever_ disobey me again.”

Solas regained his position standing tiredly at Varric’s side as Veyla stormed out and slammed the door.  They were all relieved to be rid of the disturbed young elf. 

Solas sounded as tired as he looked.  “It is not a drug, Varric, it is poison.  She has been drinking it to stay her sleep, the better to hunt Corypheus.  We must not tell the others.”

Dorian was quiet with his work.  Varric was dumbfounded, he gaped at Solas in shock.  A tear shone in the corner of his eye.  “And it did _this_ to her?  Andraste’s tits, I knew something was _bothering_ her, but I didn’t think she was taking _poison_.  I figured she just got dumped and had a hard time getting over it.”  His voice hardened with the last sentence, a scornful quirking eyebrow as Varric looked away.

Solas made no answer.   If he were the blushing sort, he would be flushed from Varric’s words.  Gods, had it been so obvious to him?

Dorian stood up straight, pulling her robes closed over her body and tucking her into bed with the respect of a man wholly uninterested in her sex.  He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger as he listened to Varric, and he sighed. 

Five long strides to Solas’ back.  Dorian grabbed the elf roughly by the shoulder to spin him around.  A fist packed with magic punched Solas square in the nose, laying him out flat with a grunt.

Blood trickled from Solas’ nose as he hissed, holding his face and collecting himself onto his knees.  He was glaring through his fingers at Dorian, too tired and repentant to retaliate.

Varric forced his way between the intimidating mages, gesturing for calm. He was more vulnerable than a babe crawling among stampeding elephants.  “ _Woah! Take it easy!_ ”

Admonishment came on a swift, sharp tongue as Dorian stood over Solas. “Did you _give it to her_?”

An expression of repulsion. “A Tevinter mage accusing an elven apostate of supplying Tevinter poison? Take care with your accusations, Dorian, lest they peg you guilty.  _Venuth_ is one artifact whose origins your people _may_ rightfully claim.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, folding his arms at his chest.  “Still, you knew she was taking it and did nothing.  What were you planning to do, Solas? Just let her kill herself?” 

Solas rose to his feet, ruefully wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand.  “I only just learned of the Inquisitor’s actions. Would that I had known sooner and stopped her.  However she came into possession of it, I do not think the Inquisitor was properly informed of the consequences of its use.”

Dorian shoved Varric out of the way, grabbing Solas by the neckline of his robe as he spoke contemptuously into his face. “That is _not_ good enough.  You go off with her _all_ day. _Alone_.  You bring her back like _this_ , and _now_ you say she’s drinking poison, and you call me out of bed to save her?”  Dorian slapped Solas in the face, open-palmed.  He accepted, cowed with guilt over Una’s deplorable state. 

Dorian continued his rant.  He was quite skilled at browbeating.

“I fail to see why the Inquisitor deems you so useful, Solas.  Where were you two today, hmm?  How could you let it get this bad?” 

Solas closed his eyes and sighed with anger at himself.  “It was meant to be a peaceful trip, and I spent much more energy than I anticipated.  I was too exhausted to help her.”

Dorian’s eyes beseeched the ceiling, disgusted with Solas’ excuses. “Vishante kaffas!  You didn’t pack lyrium on your bloody picnic.  What good is your frilly elf magic if you’re too conceited to be prepared?  Have you _met_ this woman?  She could find danger at a tea party!”

He jerked Solas to Una’s bedside by his robe and stepped aside, pointing at her. “Look at her.  She could have _fucking_ died!  Where would we be then?  Risking our lives every day to fight this blighted madness, and you’re so _useless_ you damn near let our only hope die on the ground in the filthy wilderness! Look at her!”

Even as he walked among them, Fen’Harel never stood for tongue lashings from mortals.  Today, he received his second serving without protest.  Such was the state of his guilty heart.  His eyes fell pained on her blood-crusted lips before they sought the floor.  _The list of things I will never forgive myself for grows longer with each passing day.  Still, I am relieved beyond measure to see you safe, ma’vhenan. I will never stop apologizing to you._

His voice was quiet.  “I am sorry.  I was…distracted.  It was a grievous mistake.  Thank you for helping her when I could not.”

Dorian sighed long and slow before he slapped Solas upside the head, gentler now.  “You’re _welcome_.  She wasn’t that bad, not really.  _Venuth_ gets a lot worse before it kills you.  She’ll sleep for at least a week, maybe more, but she’ll be fine when she wakes up.”

Dorian looked her over once more.  Satisfied, he headed towards the stairs.  “I’m going back to _bed_.  Don’t feed her until tomorrow morning.  Oh, and Solas.  Do us all a favor, would you, and take a bath.  Your bloody hobo feet are _repulsive_!  They’ll haunt my dreams tonight, I just know it.  Dreadful.”

Dorian left.  Varric was standing behind Una’s desk with a cautious expression on his face.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit there and take it like that, Chuckles.”

Solas put his hand on Una’s dirty forehead as he leaned over her, his tired face filled with sorrow.  “He’s right, Varric.  This is my fault.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well.  We’ve both seen Goldy looking a hell of a lot worse.  I suppose you aren’t going to tell me where you two were today, huh?”

Solas shook his head.  His fingertips gingerly palpated his throbbing nose.  “No, my friend.  I’m sorry.”

Varric chuckled and scratched his head.  Sand made a whispering sound as it tinkled from his scalp down onto her desk.

“Probably just as well.  The way you look at her, I don’t think I _want_ to know.” 

Varric walked tiredly across the room, patting Una’s sleeping hand.  “Well Goldy, you sure know how to throw a party.  Wake up soon – you and I have a _lot_ to talk about.  You’ve got a lot of nerve, for one, sending Cole and I out in the blighted desert while you roll around in the grass all day.  And what, now you get to sleep for a week while people feed you soup?  Why doesn’t anyone ever feed _me_ soup in bed?  You watch that sodding rug of yours, woman.”

Varric patted Solas on the shoulder as he headed from the room.  “Poor Goldy, I wish we could clean her up.  I suppose that’s a job best left to her chambermaids in the morning.  I’ll send the kid back up.  Hey, is she…?”

Solas was _so_ tired.  He shook his head no.  Varric made a sound of acknowledgment as he walked down the stairs.  Veyla rushed in moments later with a haste that made him smile, wordlessly climbing under the covers of Una’s bed and snuggling close.  Solas gave the girl’s hair a stroke as she stared up at him, her olive eyes bloodshot from crying.

“Miss Una is going to be okay?”

“Yes, Veyla.  The man who healed her is named Dorian, and he is very skilled.  She may be better than she ever was.”

"Did he punch you?"

Solas blinked, a little surprised. He pointed at his nose plainly.  "Yes, he did. And I deserved it.  He may not be the last member of the Inquisition to punch me in the face before the week is out."

Veyla made the face one makes upon losing a bewildering bet.  “ _How_ did he know that?”

Solas did not understand what the girl was talking about, and he was too tired to wonder at her. What use is it, anyhow, for an old man to wonder at the unknowable mind of youth?

“Are you going to sleep in bed with us?”  Solas chuckled at her smiling invitation to play house, thinking she was a little old for such fancies.Hopeful and snuggling, the girl’s cheek came to rest on Una’s covered breast.  The tired wolf tingled with envy.  _Sweet lonely thing, how you’ve missed your stand-in mother.  I see myself in you._

“No, _da’len,_ it is not my place to do so.  Watch over her for us.  I will bring breakfast in the morning. Good night, child.”  And so the tired wolf limped off to bed alone.  _In spite of all my blundering, perhaps_ _my lonely nights are numbered_.  Though his odds were meager, he smiled with hope.


	21. There's No One Like That Here

Her eyelashes fluttered against Una’s neck as she breathed in the comforting scent of her, so dearly missed. The shadows cast by flickering flames danced on their bedspread.

She wondered about him as she fell asleep.

 _Miss Una has a butt, I guess that’s how she stands this awful chair_. 

Skyhold was unlike anything she had ever seen, and she was blind to its wonders tonight.  She fitfully kicked the throne she sat in, crying and angry with everything. Angry at not understanding what had happened, angry at Scarface for rough handling her and trusting some _shemlen_ to help Miss Una, angry at everyone for calling her a child.  The short-statured young woman had hoped removing the vallaslin would stop that – little child, little heart, little girl, little thing.  Ha!  No such luck.  Scarface called her child even as he fixed her face. 

 “He calls you child because he likes you, not because you think you’re small.”

A shriek and her tears abruptly stopped as she stared piggledy-eyed at the _shemlen_ in front of her.  It was _her_ job to sneak on folk, how did he _do_ that?  Many elves had tried, but even the hunters had never succeeded in sneaking up on Veyla before.  She had heard  _shemlen_ were bumbling, noisy oafs.

He had a black kerchief over his nose and mouth, the rest of him – the buckles on his boots, the straps that crossed his chest, his form-fitting leather clothes - was covered in sand.  She dazzled for a moment at the shining blades strapped to his back.  His eyes were like the sky.  He spoke again.

“Dorian and Solas are there, Varric too.  I don’t know what a shemlen is, but she is very safe. You don’t need to worry.”  He touched her cheek, her piggledy-eyed expression unchanged. “She is like my mother too, or what I think it’s like.”

She did not understand him, but hearing this crazy _shemlen_ say Una was safe made her feel better.  Still, her mind could not take another moment of his befuddling talk.  She squawked at him.  “What is _going on_ with you?!”

His eyes widened with surprise, and he blinked.  She saw his mouth move beneath the kerchief.  “Oh.  I’m sorry, I forget.”  He pulled his kerchief down with his index finger to reveal his face before he offered a handshake, a gesture Varric taught him just today.  She did not know what it meant, and was all the more confused.  She stared at his hand as if it were a halla buck in a dress.  His voice was clearer now, without the mask.  “My name is Cole.”

They stood like that for a moment.  He looked disappointed, but then: “Oh.  You’re Dalish.”  His hand fell to his side, and he tried for a nervous little laugh – laughing was new too, and he needed practice.  It sounded fake and stiff. 

“Ala...Alabarden? Avna...las?” A sigh.  His blue eyes left her for the floor.  “Solas taught me.  I don’t remember.”

Her brain was melting as she stared at him. “You’re…are you trying to say _aneth ara_ to me?”

He nodded and looked back at her face, pleased. “Yes.”

Scorn then, which he hadn’t expected.  It made him draw back a step. “You can’t _say_ that, you’re a _shemlen_!”

“I am?”

“Are you _serious_?”

“Yes.”

She sighed in impatient disgust as she shook her head.  _Thalis was right, shemlen are daft as soggy logs._

“Oh.  S _hemlen_ means my body’s not like your body, you mean human.  Yes, I am!” A proud smile, and he remained standing there with sand in his shoes.  They both heard a scuffle in Una’s chambers then, and turned to look at the door.  Veyla rose to her feet.  Cole winced and hissed a breath through his teeth as if someone had broken or punched something.  She looked at him, flustered.

“What is it? Should we go up there – what’s your name again?”

“It’s Cole, hello, and no, it’s not safe and they’re okay.  They don’t hate each other really, but sometimes they pluck the veil at each other.”  He stood for a moment, as if listening.  Midnight leather purred with creaking as he folded his arms across his chest.  “Well.  Dorian has a point.”

So much consternation, her face might stick that way.  Still, she gawked at him.  He finally noticed.

“Why are you-… _Oh._ It’s me. I hear hurting in my head. Sometimes anger too, if it’s the heartsick kind. I know theirs like the way to the kitchen, so I can hear from further away.”

It was absolutely alien to anything she had ever known, but she began to grasp a wisp of it.  “You…see my thoughts?”

“No, I don’t see them.”

” _Fenedhis! Augh_ , Cole, you’re _annoying_! I’m so confused!”

He scratched behind his sandy ear and smiled at her again, unoffended.  “I know.  Sorry.  I’ve been trying.  Varric gave me a toothbrush last week.”

Dorian emerged from Una’s chambers before Veyla could respond to his strange comment.  He greeted Cole briefly, eyeing Veyla as he passed with a quiet scoff.

They stood in silence, then.  She stared at his face - she had never seen a _shemlen_ before today.  His face was shaped...different than an elf, she could not put her finger on it.  More square-ish, maybe.  His skin looked smooth, but there was something else, a faint stippling shadow under the skin of his jawline.

Cole made to walk away.  “Wait – do you live here? Are you in the Inquisition?”

He turned to face her, folding his arms at his chest again.  He was rocking back and forth on his feet.  She liked the squeaking.  “Yes.  Varric, Solas, me.  We travel with Una almost every day.  There are others, lots of others, but they do different things.  I-…should talk to Una.  I’m sad that she’s asleep.”

The news of his closeness with Una was exciting, and she wanted to ask this mysterious _shemlen_ a hundred questions.  The door again, the little man from before, she assumed a _durgen’len_.  She thought they all had beards, so she was confused.  He thumbed over his shoulder as he spoke to her.

“Alright, kid, go on up.  Cole, let’s go get some dinner and a bath.”

Cole did not say goodbye to her, but turned to walk down the hall with Varric.  They fell in together as though walking side by side were as natural as breathing.  She watched them with her hand on the door, eavesdropping.  Their voices echoed in the great vaulted hall.

“But I took a bath this morning.”

“You’re _covered_ in sand, kid.  Isn’t it chafing your ass crack?”

A long pause.  “Oh.  Yes.”

“Then you need another bath.  Hey, did you talk to that kid?  She showed up out of nowhere when Chuckles and Goldy got back. What’s the story?”

His voice was curious and thoughtful. “She is…different.  Her heart is young and new.  Puddles of sad, but very pretty and clear.  There’s no one like that here.”

Varric made a thoughtful sound.  “You’re right, she _is_ young.  The Inquisition is probably not the safest place for that kid.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she slammed the door and scampered up the stairs.  No one had ever called her pretty before.  No one told her _shemlen_ could be handsome.


	22. A Woman Does as She Likes

Veyla woke with the first light of morning, her sleep interrupted by the sound of Una’s pluckiest songbird tapping expectantly on the lowest pane of her glass balcony door.  She held her breath and crept with her heart in her throat to investigate, expecting an assassin or some other terrible thing.  She straightened and looked around embarrassed when she saw the little bird on the ground.  She crawled back into bed with dirty feet and resumed her morning snuggling. 

She was half between a dream and sunshine when a knock at the door gave her a start.  There was an expectant silence five or so beats long.  A female voice called through the door, curious. “My lady?”

Veyla burrowed down beneath the covers, alive with an irrational desire to remain hidden.  She heard the door, and she heard talking – a group of women coming up the stairs, maybe three or four.

Gasps of dismay.  A clattering, someone dropped something.  The presence of bodies near the bed, a matronly woman's voice sternly saying “My lady.  My lady, wake up!” while her hand briskly smacked Una's cheek.  The woman ripped the covers from the bed, and there was Veyla.  Gasps of dismay again.

She sat up and began asserting her innocence. “I didn’t do it!”

The older woman was an elf, and she hushed the others. 

“Young lady, what is going on?”

Veyla twisted the sheets in her fingers as she looked away.  One of the women rushed to the wash basin in the corner of the room.  She began wiping filth from Una’s face with a cloth.  “I’m not really sure, but…the _shemlen_ Dorian says she’ll be okay, and that she’s going to sleep for a while.”

Authoritarian chiding as the woman gestured for Veyla to leave the bed.  “We do not use bigoted language in the Inquisition, young lady.  Get out of bed this instant.”  Veyla complied, keeping her eyes on Una as her bare feet backed across the rug.

One of the other women piped up, “Master Pavus left her looking like _this_?”

The older woman spoke again, and the others stood at attention.  “Hush, now.  Lavi, ask the guards at the castle door to spare you two strong men.  Fetch the tub from storage and bring it here immediately.”

“But Leithara, Lady Una doesn’t – “

Sharp words cut her off. “Yes, I am aware our lady does not want a tub in her room.  Do as I say.” 

The ladies set to fussing over Una’s dirty body while Veyla puzzled at the latch on the balcony door.  Successful, she stepped out into the cold early morning air and scared the birds.  Her eyes and mouth were wide with awe as she took in the view of Skyhold and the mountains beyond.  Veyla had never seen snow, let alone this _grandness_.

\---

Solas made to return as he had promised.  The mysterious and solitary elf drew stares from the staff when he appeared in the kitchen – not the mess, now, but the _kitchen_ , which was generally off-limits – silently prepared a tray for two with a mug of broth, and left with it.  The Inquisitor’s mealtime seat among her comrades sat empty two days running, now. Just who was that handsome knife-ear sneaking breakfast to? The rumor mill churned.

Solas balanced the tray on one hand as he opened Una’s heavy chamber door.  His heart and feet remembered standing here racked with love and lust just the other night.  Just as before, he could not wait to climb the stairs and see her, even though she was asleep.

“ _Scarface,_ you’re back!  Thank the gods, I’m _starving_.”  The girl was sitting in a chair beside the waning fire, wearing Cole’s oversized and floppy hat.  Solas stole a glance at his lover where she slept.  Her sheets were fresh and she was clean and lovely, dressed in a silken gown with her soft hair in a loose braid over her shoulder.  He muttered a blessing to her chambermaids.  Her cheeks were still as white as sheets.

“My name is Solas, child, and it is rude to call me otherwise without my leave.  Come, I brought us breakfast.”  He set the tray on Una’s desk and moved to fetch the fireside chairs, shooing her to stand.  As he moved the furniture he knocked his forgotten wooden goblet over, spilling sweet wine on the rug.  He stooped to right it, smiling inwardly as he shook his head in amazement at Una’s daring.

_In all my days I have never met a woman so bold.  I cannot imagine the courage it must take to challenge Fen’Harel in the game of trickery._

“I don’t like it when you call me child, so I guess we’re even.  Oh, you brought soup – Miss Una ate already, Leithara made sure.” Veyla sat obediently as he slid a chair behind her. She took her plate, eyeing the food skeptically.

He took a seat across from her, taking a honeyed biscuit in his hand.  “Leave it to Leithara, the lovely woman thinks of everything.  Eat with me, Veyla, I am sure you will find it pleasant.  This is Una’s favorite breakfast.”  That did it.  The girl mirrored his actions, plucking her biscuit from her plate.

“As for calling you a child:  I did not realize it vexed you so, Veyla.  I will make efforts to address you properly if you will do the same.  Deal?”

That charming smile again, her teeth white and sparkling.  “Deal!” 

The girl was now devouring her biscuit as Solas delicately pulled pieces of his own, sucking his fingertips tidily.  They made conversation as they ate together, the sun shining on Solas’ back. 

“So.  I see you’ve stolen Cole’s hat.”

“That weird _shemlen_?  This is _his_ hat? I found it on the balcony.”

“I feel it my duty to inform you, Veyla, that we do not use words like _shemlen_ here in Skyhold.  And yes, that is very much Cole’s hat.  I am curious how you know him, as I have not seen him in days.  Did you go sneaking this morning?”

A mischievous smile. “No, but I _want_ to.  Can I, after breakfast?”

Solas raised a brow at her, smirking over his plate.  “A child asks permission, _lethallan_.  A woman does as she likes.  What Una does to you when she wakes up is her business, young lady.  As long as you stay out of the way, I am not concerned with you.  I can’t imagine you will get into any undue trouble.”

Her eyes shone with excitement.  _This girl will know Skyhold like the back of her hand by nightfall._   She looked behind Solas, out the window.  “The -… _humans_ marching around everywhere outside.  Do they follow Miss Una?”

A quiet chuckle.  “The way you say _humans_ is hardly diplomatic, but yes.  Multitudes of people follow the Inquisitor, human and otherwise.  What choice do they have?  She carries the anchor – whether or not they approve of her Dalish origins, Una is their only savior.  Some cover up her pointed ears by constructing lies and fairy tales about their god willing her destiny.  Regardless, they love her.  We all do.”

It was still strange to her, hearing the title _Inquisitor_.

“That man who punched you last night, Dorian.  He doesn’t love Una, does he? Is that why he hit you, was he jealous that she’s with you?”

Solas sniffed at the girl as he rose from his chair, moving to throw fresh logs on dying embers. “Your Una is not “with” me, young Veyla.  We are merely friends.  For that matter, Dorian’s heart is not drawn to women.  A different human member of the Inquisition was quite taken with her for a time, however.”

She looked confused by everything he’d said.  “But…I didn’t think _shemlen_ liked elves that way at all.”

Solas laughed, his voice painted with ancient irony as he leaned on the mantelpiece. “Language.  Human men find our women _very_ beautiful, Veyla.  You must remember that if you stay here, and take caution in your dealings with them.”

“I have seen Dalish men punch each other about Una before.”

Solas pursed his lips to fight a smile, amused at the thought of it. “I am sure you have.”

He knelt and began gathering those poor, neglected book pages from in front of the hearth.  He meant to fix her books for her today. The girl was now making quick work of Solas’ abandoned plate. “Did you meet Aaran?”

He responded absently, busying himself.  “Yes Veyla, I met him.  Are you stealing my breakfast, girl?”

“You left it.  Una was an orphan like me, only our Keeper found her crying by the river as a baby.  Our Keeper gave her vallaslin when she got older, but our clan still didn’t like her and no one wanted to marry her.”

 _They rejected you, and still you love them. Who **are** you, ma vhenan? Where in Thedas did you come from?  _ Solas stood up from sorting bookpages and looked at the girl, suddenly interested in her story.  She seemed to enjoy the attention, and gestured wildly as she told the tale without stopping for breath, as only an excited youth can do. She was pleased to showcase her unsurpassed knowledge of her golden-haired role model.

 _“She_ didn’t want to marry _them_ either, so it was all fine to her, even though they were mean, she didn’t care.  She always ate lunch by herself, or with the Keeper or _hahren_ Leamar, or with me later when my parents died. 

Aaran wanted to marry her when she got older because she was so pretty, and he was so mean no one wanted him.  The Keeper told Una to go to Aaran because she should have a husband, so Una did.  Aaran bedded her and didn’t please her, and she told him that, and he hit her for it and she let him and said he punched like a little girl. One of the men in the village punched him, even though no one liked her, because you shouldn’t hit your wife.  Then she left for the Conclave.  He’s been calling her _qunin’lathan_ ever since, behind her back, because he’s embarrassed.”

Solas chuckled deep in his chest.  The story sounded as he imagined a young Una would act, compliant to a point, blunt beyond caring.  He shook his head in disbelief, unsure how to respond to such a story from a woman so young.  He was relieved, at least, that the girl was not aware of Una’s unconsenting past with this man.

“How do you know all of this, _da’asha_?”

“Una told me all of it, she says I’m a woman and I should know about sex, since I don’t have a mother to teach me.” Her nose was in the air now, her scandalous little belly full of his breakfast.  “Una says any _asha_ with sense should learn to kill her own meal and satisfy her own needs, sex too, and never count on someone else to do it for her.”

 _Never count on someone else…No man has ever pleased her._ Private thoughts began to creep, and he did his best to stop them.  Lovesick as he was, he would not stand and fantasize about triumphant lovemaking while speaking to a child. 

Solas grew uncomfortable, then, with the intimate nature of the conversation.  He certainly would not deny the girl her education, but he sought to change the subject.

“I see.  I apologize for treading on the business of women.  I would ask you something else.  That word, _qunin_ , it is not real Elvish.  What does it mean to the Dalish?”

She had her feet on Una’s desk, looking quite pleased with herself. “Cow.  He calls her a cow-fucker, because he couldn’t satisfy her. He means her _edhas_ is loo –“

Solas’ eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped as he realized the can of worms he’d opened.  He held his hand out to stop her talking at once. “ _Be still_ , Veyla!  That is quite enough!  I appreciate you illuminating the situation for me, but you must learn to honor yourself with your words.  Dirty language such as this does not become an elf of any age, male or female.”

“You _asked_. You can’t get mad at me for the truth. It’s what he _said_.”

A tired sigh.  He considered going back to bed.  He glanced ruefully at Una where she slept before he returned his attentions to the papers on the floor. “Repeating a small mind’s language is _certainly_ no excuse.  Please, let us change the subject.  Will you come help me fix Una’s books?”

He beckoned Veyla with a gesture and she pleasantly complied, her willful battle to be crude forgotten.  He gathered several pages, placing them in her outstretched hands.  “Stack the pages I hand you on the desk in piles one through four, _da’vhenan,_ and please be gentle as you do so.  Some of these books are very old. Let’s call these stack one.”  As if to illustrate his point, one brittle piece of paper broke as he tried to pick it up.  She giggled, and he sighed again.  A touch of his glowing finger to fix it.  “Stack three for these, Veyla. Do be careful.”

Another rueful glance at the Inquisitor in bed.  _Do you see me, ma vhenan?  I would remake the world with you, and you bid me wait.  So here I am, Una, tidying your clutter as visions of the sparkling future I would build for you burn urgently in my mind._

\---

The pair mended the books around lunch time and celebrated with a dance, Solas instructing his nervous young pupil in front of the fireplace with the grace and patience of a saint.  She would stumble onto his feet and apologize, he would pat her back and chuckle, and they would start again.  Her timidness in learning touched his heart.

She left then, in her purloined floppy hat, to return the dishes to the kitchen and explore the castle.  The room fell silent with the closing of that heavy wooden door.  Solas stood in the middle of the room with his arms folded at his chest, looking quietly at Una in her bed.  His mind, free of the young girl’s company, began to wander.

_She is not going to forgive me.  She shouldn’t.  I can hardly bear to look at her.  The things she said last night; she **hates** me, as she should, as she has never hated anything before and never will again.  I have ruin'd her gentle soul with the things I've done._

_The self-loathing again?  Her visions lied to her.  You have only to convince her of the truth in your heart, and you may yet have a chance.  She would not be so wounded if she did not love you back._

He shook his head and looked with hesitation towards her stairs, then back to her.

_I am alone with her, and we are not fighting each other or anything else.  We are just here.  Oh ma sa'lath, how I’ve missed spending time with you.  If I could be near you, just-…just for a glimpse of time._

With a timid gesture he set a barrier on the door, even though he knew he shouldn’t.  He moved with more guilt than a dog sneaking a roast from the table.  Hesitant steps carried him with undue caution as his eyes darted around the room, as though the walls would cry out scandal. 

He found himself at her bedside, and his heart was racing.  Slowly, gently, he lowered himself onto her soft feather bed, staying on top of her comforter.  He slid one arm under her neck, careful not to pull her hair.  His other arm came across her body and he embraced her gently with his cheek on her silken shoulder, burying his face against her soft and scented plait.

His heart careened with joy as he breathed her in deeply, every fiber of him alight with the world’s most powerful love. He envied the child who would sleep beside her tonight.

His nose brushed her ear as he lifted his head to share her pillow.  Thoughts of her suffering blossomed in his mind as he beheld her, rotten with blame and self-hate.  Tears welled in his eyes as he whispered verse* in the Common Tongue.  Fen’Harel pontificated adoringly as he wept, his fingers curled in her hair.

“I have felt this in dreams.  In dreams in which I seemed the fate from which I fled; I felt a strange delight in causing my decay. 

I was a fiend in darkness, chained forever within some ocean cave. Ages rolled, till through the cleft rock like a moonbeam came a white swan to remain with me.  And ages rolled, yet I tired not of my first free joy in gazing on the peace of her pure wings.

And then I said, “She is most fair to me.  Yet her soft wings must sure have suffered change; from the thick darkness, sure her eyes are dim.  Her silver pinions must be cramped and numbed with sleeping ages here. 

She cannot leave me. For she would seem, in light beside her kind, withered – though here, to _me,_ most beautiful.”

And then she was a young witch whose green eyes, as she stood naked by the river springs, drew down a god.  I watched his radiant form growing less radiant, and it gladdened me. 

‘Til one morn, as he sat in the sunshine upon my knees, singing to me of heaven, he turned to look at me ere I could lose the grin with which I viewed his perishing. And he shrieked and departed, and sat long by his deserted throne but sunk at last, murmuring as I kissed his lips and curled around him, “I am still a god – to thee.”

Still, I can lay my soul bare in its fall, since all the wandering and all the weakness will be a saddest comment on the song.  And if, that done, I can be young again with you, I will give up all gained as willingly as one gives up a charm which shuts him out from hope or part or care in human kind."

Quieted lips trembled with a broken sob as he pressed them to the side of her head with a kiss, clenching his eyes closed.  

_"I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”_

He may never say it enough to satiate himself, but he tried.  Even as he took great joy in their chaste closeness, he petitioned her sleeping ears with sorrow and regret all afternoon. By sunset, the rare and treasured tears of Fen’Harel shone in her hair like countless diamonds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very gently modified excerpt from Robert Browning's "Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession", published in 1833. TMI: This has been my favorite poem since I was 10 years old. ;)


	23. Flirting in the Mud

For the duration of her slumber, Una’s chambermaids saw personally to her every need.  They kept her tummy diligently brothed, her pillows just as diligently fluffed, and her fire burning bright and unreasonably hot as she liked it.  Solas heated fresh bathwater with an elegant gesture every evening before taking his leave.  The ladies would bathe her with sincere reverence, feeling humbly blessed to do so.

Solas wondered one evening, as he sat reading at Una’s desk and idly listening to two of the women fussing over the chantry’s opinion of bath tubs facing due east, where Una had taken her baths prior. He thought of the clear cool river where he preferred to bathe; he wanted to show her that beautiful place, and countless others like it.  His mind wandered as Leithara waxed on about the religious implications of water vessels, birds and beds for City Elves. 

He imagined laying her down on the mossy banks beneath that billowing willow tree, as he had imagined countless times of every place he ever frequented.  The look of her clinging wet hair in the hot noon sun, the feel of her sharp nails on the back of his neck, urgent whispers of his name.  _Fenedhis_ , the things he wanted to _do_ to that beautiful woman.  He felt an aching surge of lust in his trousers and shifted in her plush chair with a sigh, resting cheek on fist to turn his face away from the chambermaids.  He stole a glance at her sleeping frame.  _Mercy, my sweet heart, the **animal** you make of me._

A violent sneeze dampened his reverie as he snuffed and glowered into his book.  Solas was lucky to have stolen that teary afternoon alone with her the other day, for Una’s secret was out and her chambers were now a hub of activity; a ceaseless stream of visitors paid respects, wished her well, and left her gifts.  The Inquisitor would have blushed and admonished her comrades for making such a fuss over her, like some cherished fairy princess under a romantic spell.

Una’s chambers looked and smelled as though the members of the Inquisition had plucked for her every last wildflower in Thedas; the multitude of blossoms therein bordered on a practical joke.  Veyla worked enough flower garlands to trail around her sleeping frame and drape upon her head. Solas placed a tasteful vase of steely blue flowers on her bedside table, a secret expression of romance, fond memories of flirting feet. The blasted catmint was from Cole, who was developing a fondness for all things purple.  The rest, utter floral chaos, was from all of them.  

Varric would sit among the flowers and read aloud to her every morning after breakfast, always something racy, as she liked it.  One stowaway honeybee would drone in shafts of sunlight as he listened to tales of zesty smut and had his greedy way with flower after untold flower.  He knew he’d died and gone to heaven. 

Plant life was not the lot of it.  Gifts piled up, too.  Some fit for the finest lady, others for a champion.  Unnumbered treasures glinted in the afternoon sun.  Indeed, the chambermaids had fetched no less than three wall tables to hold it all.  Veyla’s evening dancing lessons moved to the rotunda for the want of foot space.

As for the Inquisitor’s cause; though she was missed, her people did not falter.  The Inquisition continued its relentless accumulation of information, wealth and power, a well-oiled war machine by now.

Veyla, as Solas had expected, made quick work of mastering Skyhold’s nooks and crannies.  She grew close with the apothecary elf and the kitchen staff in a matter of hours.  Running errands pleased her greatly, and her belly had no want of pies and honeyed biscuits.  Veyla enjoyed the dur’genlen as well; she incessantly pestered the small Dwarven population of Skyhold for information about Orzammar and dur’genlen life.

She also developed a penchant for stealing. 

Her nimble fingers were merciless in their innocent misapplication of skill.  She started small at first, things that were not missed.  Her first nicked item was a fresh little pie from the kitchen, even though she had her fill. 

The adroit young elf quickly grew bored with stealing things no one would miss and upped her ante. Little blue glowing bottles from the Commander’s desk drawer. Letters from the diplomat, sealed with bright red wax. Varric’s ink-stained quill.  Tattered novels from the _shem_ with a scar on her face. Veyla did not steal from Solas, though his paint brushes were quite a temptation when left to dry, for the part of her heart where he lived was far too delicate to abide his fatherly scolding.

Veyla stole for thrilling challenge, not for acquisition.  The rush achieved, her interest waned. Pilfered items were invariably abandoned or thrown out.  There was but one item in all of Skyhold for which she ached with want. She had tried and failed to acquire it every day since she first laid eyes on it.

The girl could not explain the extra special rush she got from trying to steal Cole’s hat.  It was not just that she liked the thing; the hat was strange, ridiculous, and yes, she convinced herself that she coveted it with an intensity most unreasonable.

Perhaps it was because he stole it back from her so effortlessly, and she never saw it coming?  Yes, it was the slight of being bested.  Definitely.

Whatever the cause, her heart would patter with electric excitement and her lungs would fill with giggles every time she took to the rafters in the tavern, or hid behind a door to snatch at it, or crept up behind him while he talked to someone else. 

As Solas sat reading in Una’s chambers, so did Cole read in the attic of the tavern.  He was laying on his belly with ankles splayed and toes pointed, his cheek on his fist as he digested printed word.  Crisp pages whispered now and then with turning.  The air was warm with the muffled mirth and music of the tavern below, and a candle burned near him on the floor to supplement the dying light of day. And yes, he was wearing his hat.

He did not stop reading as he spoke, his voice good-natured and friendly.  “I can hear you.  I told you before.”

“ _AUUGGHH!”_ She hung upside down by her knees like a monkey from the rafters above his bedroll and let her arms fall limp towards the floor with drama, her face contorted as she whined.  “I _hate_ you! Give ih-ih-ihttttt!”

He folded the corner of a page and closed the book, rolling onto his back.  He stretched and dropped the book at his arm’s length before folding his relaxed hands on his belly.  He craned his neck to look at her upside down, sincerely perplexed and thoughtful.  “You don’t even _want_ my hat.  Not really.  Why do you keep trying to take it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.  “What are you reading?”

“I…don’t want to say.  Are you going to answer me?”

She pulled a face at him and rolled her eyes. “ _No_ , I’m _ignoring_ you.”

He blinked, and his eyebrows furrowed in slow confusion as he looked away to think. “Oh.  Isn’t that...rude? – HEY!”

She dropped to the floor and grabbed his book, swinging herself over the banister to fall straight down t’wixt two flights of stairs to the tavern floor.  She rolled artfully when she hit the ground, ears deaf to the surprised exclamations of patrons as she tore out the door into the muddy courtyard, heading for the barn. 

Varric was one of several patrons she set gasping.   He was seated next to Cassandra with his feet propped in a chair.  They were both drunk.  His fingertips were sneaking on her inner thigh beneath the table, oblivious to the sideways glare that threatened to deck him. They were both impressed by Veyla’s acrobatics.

The briefest flash in the corner of his eye, near the foot of the stairs.  Only Varric noticed, for he had seen Cole's cloaking swiftness countless times before.  He set to laughing, slapped her on the leg as he rose to his feet, flagon in hand.  “Oh, I have _got_ to see this!”

She giggled with glee as bare feet made quick work of the slippery distance to the barn, her movements sleek and quick like a darting fish.

And then he was there.  Out of _nowhere_ , just there, standing feet in front of her in his creamy cotton dayclothes and brown leather boots, poised to catch her with a glaring scowl on his face.  She dug her heels in churning mud and turned to bolt around him, but he was everywhere and she could not evade him.

Neither could he catch her – she was slick as snot, and would not yield in fleeing.  He normally dealt with such foes via decapitation, but that was not an option here. 

Aggravated, he pounced her face first to the soft, sucking ground and tried to hold her still, grasping for his book, which she _still_ managed to keep from him. A frustrated growl the likes of which he’d never made rose unbidden in his throat as they wrestled in the mud, both unaware of their Dwarven audience of one. Varric shook and squealed through his fist with stifled mirth as he watched their filthy twilight struggle.

“ _Ugh!_ Will you – _oof_ – give it _back_! It’s mine!”

He rolled her over and she started a hysterical giggling fit, which only served to confuse him more.  Her olivine eyes and sparkling teeth shone at him through the mud on her face as she trembled with chortling, engaging in a tug-of-war with him over the slippery book. 

He won out with a rough jerk and held the book aloft behind him, out of her reach.  She fell back in the mud with a thud, his victory only seeming to amplify her mirth.  Her short brown hair was filthy from the struggle, and stuck out wildly above her pointed ears.

Bewildered baby blues stared down at the giggling elfgirl pinned between his knees.  He’d heard Una say this before, and was pretty sure it fit.  “Are you _nuts_?”

She could hardly speak for laughing. “Your – your _face_! You’re – gheheehe – you’re _filthy_!”

He looked down at his clean clothes and groaned, flicking mud from his free hand as he moved to stand up.  “ _Augh._   I just washed this.  I _hate_ laundry.  And I need a bath again.”

She rolled onto her side, holding her belly and kicking her feet as she laughed.  He took a step back from her, incredulous.  His reprimand fell on deaf ears.  “It’s not funny. You’re filthy too, you know.  And you ruined my book!  It was a gift!”

He heard the sound of Varric slapping his knee with laughter and spun around, his face betrayed.  “You were watching?  I don’t – “

“Don’t _worry_ about it, kid!  I’ll get you another copy!”  Varric continued laughing, his cheeks red, tears in his eyes.  Cole maintained an expression of distrustful consternation as he stared at Varric. “Come on, don’t look so serious!  Aren’t you having fun flirting in the mud?”

“ _ **What?** ”  _His cheeks rushed beet red beneath his muddy mask as he stood there, angry and embarrassed.  Flirting was the way Solas smiled with pursed lips when he paid the Inquisitor a compliment, Varric had said, or the way Iron Bull slapped Lady Montilyet on the back and called her “Missy”.  Flirting was about love and sex, and these were _not_ games Cole had interest in.  He had seen what it did to his friends, and he wanted no part of it. 

He protested with all the emotions a young man feels in this situation, yelling indignantly.  “I was _not_!” He pointed behind himself to where he’d pinned her on the ground.  He was so hot-headed over the accusation of flirting, he did not notice that she was already gone.  “She keeps taking my things!  She’s been after my hat all week, she took my book, she won’t leave me alone!”

Varric grinned widely and gestured with his hands in the air, shrugging and shaking his head.  His laughter was now a slow-burning chuckle.  “Suit yourself, kid, I guess I misunderstood.  You were just telling me last night how excited you are to have a young woman to talk to.”

His cheeks could get one shade redder, and they did.  His yelling stepped up a pitch with youthful desperation and denial.  “That wasn’t what I _meant!_   I just meant she’s…different! …Stop _looking_ at me like that!  _You – “_

He spun around to give Veyla a talking to, and she was gone.  He pulled a puzzled face and looked around in the dark of the new night.  His heart skipped a beat like a new bride who realizes she’s taken off her wedding ring and left it by the tub, and he dropped the book with a _splat_ as his hands jumped up to feel his naked, muddy hair.

“Wha - ? … _Fuck!”_ He clenched his fists and stomped the muddy ground, groaning with frustration.  His christening voyage into the world of colorful language sent Varric careening over the edge with laughter all over again.

“Y’know, she probably takes your stuff because she _likes_ you.  That’s how kids flirt, Cole! Stealing, wrestling…You may not be flirting with _her_ , but she’s _certainly_ flirting with you.”

Cole sighed as he listened to Varric, distracted as he mourned the loss of his hat.  He was looking off into the dark distance as if it were a wayward dog who would return, given patience.  He sounded smug.  “Well, I don’t like it. It isn’t very nice.”

The tone of the conversation changed as Varric sighed and shook his head, walking over to stand with Cole and pat him on the back.  “She isn’t doing it to hurt you, Cole.  She’s looking for attention, she wants you to come after her and try to take it back so she can play with you some more.”

Cole wiped mud from his face with his muddy hands, not the most productive gesture. He blinked hard, and he sighed skeptically.  “Varric, that doesn’t make sense.  She knows where I am, she can talk to me if she wants.”

“But that’s not _fun_.  Women want to be _chased_ , Cole, they aren’t satisfied unless they get under your skin and make you a little crazy.”

Skepticism, still.  “But that _doesn’t make sense._ Why would you want to make someone crazy if you like them?  People who like each other should try to make each other happy.”

Another pat on the back.  “Cole, there’s a formula to this, and I should know.  _Trust_ me.  That girl likes you, whether you two know it or not.  You can deny it all you want, and it might even go away.  But you want to learn about being a human, and let me tell you, that girl’s giggling can teach you lessons none of your friends can.  Think twice before you decide you're mad at her.”

Varric made his way back towards the tavern and left Cole alone to stand staring after her footsteps in the mud, hopelessly confused.


	24. My Ignorant Mistake

Fragrance came first, a scented floral bliss half way t’wixt sleep and waking where she hovered for a time.  Her chest heaved with a carefree sigh as she rolled onto her side, snuggling a pillow under her chin with wordless murmuring.

When her lazy verdant eyes deigned finally to open, their view was filled with velvety blue-gray blossoms in a glazed earthenware pitcher on her bedside table.

_He stayed.  He stayed with me._

Her mind was still fuzzy with sleep, but she remembered things.  The way he stood merciless over her, bellowing disdain.  The _sounds_ , otherworldly and terrible, that ripped from his throat as he paced and pulled at hair he didn’t have.  She remembered how he left, running like a man possessed.  _Did he torture me?  Was I mistaken?_

She remembered the wrathful pain then, and cast her eyes away from the question-begging flowers down to soft white linens.  A hand roamed at her belly – yes, she was fine now.  A sigh of relief as she sat up, her hair frizzy and big.

So swollen was her heart with doubt, legs lacked the will to stand.  For she remembered something else.

_“If you think I would use and kill you, Una, that dark old magic you dredged up has not shown you everything of me.”_

She found herself gazing into the light of her palm, as she was wont to do when thinking of him.  Her heart hoped beyond hope, citing countless references of inviting smiles shared in passing secret, laughter in the moonlit garden, pale blue gazes soft with love.  Still, _how_ could she trust him?  The pain, the leaving, _always_ leaving and coming back, feints and blows and lies and threats.  The way he used her, the things he _wanted_ from the world.

Fen’Harel may have the will and strength to destroy everything she ever knew, and still, she longed to love him.

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists.  _I waste the world’s precious time with selfish thoughts when my life is not my own.  I have already squandered days I do not have in sleeping off my ignorant mistake.  I must bathe and meet my council._

She rose to her feet in a trance, assuming the same unaffected demeanor that saw her through untold trials and battles as her heart suffered the loss of him in secret.  Though her room was pregnant to bursting with gifts and lovely flowers glowing in a pastel rainbow of afternoon sun, she was blind to all of it.

She worked the braid out of her hair and dropped her sleeping gown around her ankles, stepping into her chilly bath before the fireplace.  Pulsing magic warmed water as she leaned back, sliding down the wall of the tub to submerge her head in flowing heat that whispered life into her bones.

Veyla’s approach made not one vibrating whisper on the stairs, so light-footed was she.  She made to stash some unknown thing in a patchy knapsack underneath the foot of Una’s bed.  Her eyes grew big as saucers when she found the mattress empty.  Whatever trinket she was clutching, she forgot the stowing of it as she rushed out of the room, leaving the bathing Inquisitor none the wiser.


	25. Take It

“Calm down, Veyla, I am sure she’s somewhere.  You know these grounds as well as I do, if not better.  Go search for her, _da’vhenan_ , and I will check her room.”  Solas was standing at the edge of his scaffolding looking down on the mortified girl.  His knuckles were streaked with gold and black paint, his face spattered lightly with the same.  He’d dropped a brush or two when she burst in squawking with dismay.  He wiped his hands with a cloth before mounting the ladder.

“I _told_ you, Solas, she’s not _in_ there!” She shook the ladder as he descended, trying to prove her point. 

“Chah, will you _stop_ that!” He paused in his descent and glowered down at her, waiting for the shaking to cease. “I _heard_ you, child, but there may be clues as to her whereabouts.  As I have explained innumerably to you, it is not polite to question your elders.  Now go and _look_ for her, you stubborn little halla calf.”

He gently swatted her upside the head as he alighted beside her, and they left the room together.  Veyla ran towards the mess.  Solas walked calmly at first, but his pace quickened with haste when the girl was out of sight.

She couldn’t be awake yet.  His mind roiled, wondering if someone had taken her.  Was Skyhold so easily compromised?  Perhaps that apostate witch, a shifty creature Solas never trusted.  He opened her door with a quiet quickness and left it open, rushing up the stairs to her chamber with his guilty heart in his throat.

Time stopped.  It was then, after countless days and nights spent in heartsick fantasy, that Fen’Harel saw Una’s body for the first time.  His eyes had known true beauty, yet she was unlike anything the god had ever seen. His doubts of her mortality solidified with awe beyond his wildest dreams.  Her elegance would live in him for all eternity.

She stood glowing in the sun before her dressing mirror, dripping water on that rug she loved.  Steam rose from milky skin flushed with the heat of blazing bathing. Her thick golden hair, which she made to tuck behind her elven ears, was heavy with moisture – it trickled in rivers down the small of her back, disappearing in the tantalizing cleft between her smooth, round buttocks. 

The strength of her body, while apparent, did nothing to detract from the supple temptations of her figure.  While her limbs were sleek and muscular, her delicate breasts were soft and inviting, pale pink nipples relaxed from the heat.  His admiring eyes followed slender curves to the flawless little dimple at the junction of her thighs.

Her arms were frozen in the act of managing her hair, her piercing green eyes fixed on his face in the mirror.  Her rosy face was a placid mask, unknowable and bare.  She said nothing.

Time kicked in as he pulled his gaze away, pivoting smoothly on his feet.  His heart and soul cried out in protest at the loss of such a vision.  He spoke to the floor, his tone austere and simple as they both feigned ignorance of pressing matters between them.  “ _Abelas,_ Inquisitor _._   I am gravely sorry.  None of us expected you awake for another several days.  I shall take my leave.”

“Apology in two languages is hardly necessary, Solas.  We are adults, I am sure you’ve seen a naked woman before.”  Spoken plain and blunt.  She draped her fur-lined silken robe around her shoulders and tied it closed as she listened to his leaving.

Una heard a voice at the foot of her stairs that made her eyes go wide and her lips part in disbelief.  “Solas, I can’t find her _anywhere!_ ”

“The Inquisitor is here, Veyla.  Surprisingly, she is awake. We trespass on her bathing as we speak.”

Una rushed across the room and stood atop the stairs, looking down on them.  Solas had one hand on the door to make his exit.  His other hand was on Veyla’s shoulder. Her conflicted feelings for him fell away, yielding to dread. _No, no, I cannot trust him, not with her.  Of all things, not with her._

Her quiet voice was dark with threat.  “Get your hand off her. Now.”

A serene expression he’d trusted for untold centuries kept his face as he complied, holding the offending hand aloft near his shoulder as he looked ahead passively, seeing nothing. 

Una continued.  Her eyes, hardened with distrust, did not leave Solas’ face.

“Veyla.  Leave.  Don’t return until I fetch you.”

The young elf would have none of it.  She protested, loud and angry, hugging Solas ‘round the middle as her eyes shot angst up the stairs.  “Miss _Una_ , what is _wrong_ with you?  He saved your – “

Una snapped, commanding.  “He is _dangerous._   Get away from him **now.** ”  An uncompromising finger pointed in the direction of the Great Hall. “Go.”

Still, Veyla did not listen to the woman she had idolized for most of her short lifetime.  She squeezed Solas tight, olive eyes beseeching him.  “Solas, _say_ something, don’t let her –“

Solas did not move to embrace the girl back. His eyes turned to Una on the stairs, and he whispered gently, simply.  “Veyla.”

Veyla’s mouth snapped shut, bewildered.  She shook her head slowly as she let her arms drop from around him and backed away, tears welling in her eyes.  She glared with the fickle, unchecked hate of youth up at Una before storming off.  Her obedience to him galled Una to her core.

The two stood still at head and foot of stairs, eyes locked and unreadable.

“Close the door.”  He did so, his calm gaze never leaving her. 

Her voice was more wounded than angry.  Her pale eyebrows furrowed, just a bit.  “Did you bring her here to hurt me?  Will you stop at nothing to bring me pain?”

Feeling came to his eyes then, his brows furrowing in response as he tilted his head to the side, dropping his hand from the door.  He shook his head as he spoke, the way he always used to when he’d kiss her. 

“I mean neither of you harm through cherishing her timid heart.  She waited for you all day, Inquisitor, into the night.  I found her standing in the dark, alone and small, determined to follow you.  It may be a weakness in me, but I could not deny her, for I know what it is to long for your presence.  I would never wish such heartache on a child.”

The effect of his silver tongue on her aching heart made her fear mistakes and trickery. She recoiled from his adoring words with trepidation, chastising him to avoid the subject.  “Would you bring every puppy-eyed begging whelp to Skyhold, Solas?  If you do care for that girl, you are a _fool_ to bring her here.  Legions of horrors may come over the ridge at any time. Neither you nor I can promise to save the child from butchery when she is with the Inquisition.

Regardless of your words, I will not trust my most precious lamb to a deceitful mongrel like you.  Leave me, Solas, and stay away from her.  I mean to dress and send her home immediately.”

She set her jaw and turned away from him, moving with purpose to her chest of drawers.  He stayed his ground, his slender fingers curling ‘round the trinket on his chest with a whisper.  “Una. Wait.”

She stopped in her tracks, and her warring heart raced as it begged her not to ignore him. 

He’d heard her footsteps quit.  It was enough.  He climbed the stairs with downcast eyes and sank to his knees before her, head bowed in supplication.  Old regrets weighed his voice with penance.  “Take it.”

She was taken aback by his gesture, and one foot crept away from him.  The part of her heart that loved him ached, for he could only mean one thing.  Stunned green eyes followed the doubled leather thong draped across his neck and shoulders.  Even when she longed to feed his face to worms, she would never think of _this_.  Shock stayed her reaction, and he continued to entreat her.

“Take it, Una.  I would rather be toothless than cause you another moment’s fear.  Take it, and know my mind again.  If you can stay disgust enough to touch this wretched cur, know me through my skin.  I fear the nostalgia of the wine tainted your results when last you bested me, for as you know, I am very old; my memories run deep.” 

His head sank lower, his voice grew sadder and more desperate.  “If my teeth are not enough, have my ears.  Have my hands.  I will give _anything_ if you will know my mind once more.  I beg of you.  Do this thing, and I will leave as you command.  You will never look upon this pathetic beast again, and you may throw his teeth into the sea if it pleases you.”

Compassion grew then, but she bade it stay back and watch.  The Inquisitor could not, moved with pity, refuse his sacrifice and forgive him his trespasses.  To subjugate Solas was the only way to absolve his mistakes, and even then atonement was a glimmering uncertainty.  As it stood she could not afford to forgive him, though her heart begged her to do so, for he was treacherous by nature and her cause too dear to Thedas.

So, though it pained her, she seized the teeth from Fen’Harel.  Soft leather fit easy over his head, and the talisman was light as a feather in hand.  Though it looked as simple as removing a necklace, her skin and soul could _feel_ the ripping in his aura as she pulled his teeth away.  The powerful thing swirled with helpless indignity as if sentient, as though to part from him were the most grievous and unthinkable sin.  If an elf’s ears could droop, his surely did.  She watched as a measure of strength left him, watched his hands find the floor at her feet.

She gingerly wrapped the leather cord around her hand and tucked cold bone to palm.  Her other hand hovered above his inclined head, hesitating.

The techniques were very new to her.  Her eyes tracked as she searched her mind for the memory of how to use the magic without enchanting an item to trap him.  She found it then, just there, and now must move to use it.  Still, she hesitated.

The weakened god prostrate on the floor before her whispered like a ghost.  “ _Ma’eth.”_

A sharp breath through her nose, and down she reached to spread her fingers over his paint-spattered scalp.  She closed her eyes and watched his mind on the back of her eyelids.  She burned so brightly there, she may be blinded.

A cacophony of memories flooded unchecked. Every kiss, every touch, every laugh, every _moment_ he had spent with her was catalogued as clear as crystal, every passing second an eternity of devoted love.

She felt his heart as he stood by her side through countless confrontations, watching and admiring and falling more in love.  She would have never guessed he watched her body with such hunger as she led him a'battling through hell. 

She felt him fighting himself early on, reproachful of his growing affections.  Sleepless nights scowling and pacing, determining to end this juvenile infatuation, just to see her in the morning and lose himself with heartsick adoration all over again. 

She saw those sleepless nights turn towards burning passion, lonely and desperate with need, and she blushed with a secret thrill as he pleasured himself to the thought of her.  She was sad to feel him thinking himself base, for she had done it all the same.

She heard him talking himself in and out of thinking her a god, and that made her chuckle in disbelief.  She would have never guessed he viewed her with such bulletproof respect.

She heard the humming in his chest as he picked those blue-gray flowers in the dawn of a secret glade.  An early morning just for her, he did not mind the waking as he was wont to do.

She felt his pure joy at their cluttered breakfast for two, felt his heart thrill when she complimented his painting. 

She felt the surge of lust and regret that bade him flee her quarters on that chilly afternoon.

She felt the pain in his heart when he parted from her, and it brought tears to her face. 

She glimpsed the terrible old memories of torture and suffering that bade him strike her for abusing the  _venuth._ She wished he'd slapped her twice that night.

She came to know the infernal, soul-rending terror he felt at being discovered, and her heart surged with guilt and pity. It stung all the more to know that he had never tortured her; her heedless ignorance was the mother of her suffering before his likeness.

She felt the longing in his heart as he stole glances at her sleeping frame from across a room of fussing housemaids. 

And she felt his heart right now, even as he knelt stripped bare, and knew he loved her more than any mortal man could love a woman.


	26. I Am Waiting to Wake Up*

Spots in her vision like staring at the sun, and it was over.  A sniffle as she wiped tears from her face with the back of her hand, the leather thong rubbing at her eyelids.

Her worries and obligations fell back from her surge of passion.  She had longed for his love for what felt like a lifetime.  She had all the evidence she needed, and would not hesitate a heartbeat longer.

She eagerly slid to her knees in front of her melted lover, bringing her truth-seeking hand from his scalp to his cheek.  His eyes were still closed, his brows still set in sorrow, his face still downcast.  She whispered with a sniffling smile as she moved her thumb over golden speckles to the corner of his mouth. “You have been painting for me again, _vhenan_.  It is all over your face.” Breathlessly, “There are no words for how handsome you are, Fen’Harel.  But that is not why I forgive you.”

Still, he did not move.  She unwound the cord from her hand and placed his teeth around his neck once more, kissing the jawbone before she released it to fall on his chest with a gentle _tink_.  _Still_ , he did not move.

Unbidden slippage of her furry robe revealed her milky neck and shoulder near his downcast face as she leaned close and brought her lips to brush his pointed ear, still breathless, her heart racing in her chest.  So close was she, her whisper roared in him.  _“Kiss me, Solas. Please. If you make me wait, I’ll die."_

Nothing.

She sat back on her haunches, staring wounded and bemused as her hand lingered on his face. For lack of a better idea, she flicked his eartip and asked with a voice most flat, “Are you daft? I am throwing myself at you.”  Then, gentler, “…Solas, are you okay?”

His voice was not timid, then, to match his downcast state.  Rather, it was clear and plain.  “I am waiting to wake up.  I have had this dream a hundred times, and in it you do many things – you cast me out, you sentence me to chains, you spill my entrails on your treasured rug.  Never were my heart’s imaginings so absurd as this complete forgiveness and restoration.  I am ashamed to even conjure such a fancy.  To kiss your mouth, _emma lath_ , even in deluded fantasy, is more of you than I deserve.”

Her hand kept his face.  “You truly believe me so wicked, Solas, that I could see your heart and not be moved?  Have you ever for a moment believed my love for you?  That you think so little of me wounds me.  Does the god who walks the Fade have such a time discerning dreams from life?”

His precious eyes, at last, and he lifted his head. Innumerable emotions warred therein, the chaos a summation of unreadable enigma.  His gentle hand covered and dwarfed her own on his cheek as he stared into her face.  “Una.  I have done you so much wrong.  You, and the world you love.”

A gentle smile moved her lips as she pressed her hand more firmly to his face.  “And I forgive you, for you had only my best interests and repentance in your heart.” 

She leaned close to send whispers roaring in his ear again, and now he saw and felt her demure collarbone pass beneath his chin to press him, the fur behind her shoulder tickling his nose in teasing invitation. 

“ _Were you to read my mind, old Fadewalker, you would see the same – You would see me marveling with love at you, hanging on your every word, heartsick for your company with every fleeting day. My desperation for the truth of you was born not just of safety, but of burning obsession and lust.  You **imagined** me? I have stolen kisses from your sleeping lips beneath the stars, Solas. I have pleasured myself in sopping, crashing silence with my wanton eyes burning on the strength of your sleeping back, and never felt regret. _

_You told me once that your imaginings cannot give you taste.  Taste me, Solas, as you have before, and know that I am real and begging you for love.  Kiss me, Solas, and stay.  I have lain with my cat’s share of men, but never one I loved, for I have never loved a man before you and never will again.  If you would make amends, Solas, make a gift of your love to me.”_

His name begged on her lips set his reticent heart racing. The scent of her damp hair, the softness of her robes and silky skin, her sultry whispers of secret passion rushing in his ear.  One hand left her own. Fingertips ghosted on her lower back, fearing she would disappear if held too tightly.  The fingers of his other hand made gentle purchase in her moist and heavy tresses, cradling the back of her head as he bade her lean back from his shoulder.  His smiling eyes shone with tears as he exalted with a joyous, urgent cry.

 _“Emma vhenan'ara, ma'arlath!”_   And he clutched her, and he kissed her, and his walls came crashing down.

It started as a kiss for kiss’s sake, neither chaste nor sexed, an ecstatic celebration of requited love.  Soft lips pressed each other as the lovers knelt together in a tight embrace, his caring hand supporting her head to ease the burden of their differences in height. 

He gently sucked her bottom lip after a time, and in a flash romantic reverie turned to gnashing hunger.  She moaned into his probing mouth as he sucked the very air from her with need, yearning heat spreading slick down the insides of her thighs.  She felt that he may suck the very soul from her, and she was happy for it. Her mouth answered in kind, urgent and hungry for the taste of him, her tongue sending shivers down his spine as it trailed a point across the ridg’d roof of his sweet mouth.

She felt his hand move from her waist to her bottom with a forward lean that bent her back, and thought he meant to lay her down on the rug before him – but, he did not.  The eager kiss unbroken, he guided her legs around his waist and rose with rippling muscles to his feet, holding her against him like she weighed less than nothing.  She thrilled to feel him pulling her wet sex against his throbbing breeches.

Purposeful strides across the room, his fluid movements rubbing at her like a graceful loping steed.  She felt the hard edge of her desk beneath her arse as he leaned over her, still kissing her.  Her fingers curled into his paint-peppered shirt for balance as he leaned her back.  His body pressed against her so fiercely, she felt her spine may snap in two in spite of his firm hands supporting the small of her back and the back of her neck.  She could handle _so_ much more.   She was dizzy with the scent of him, like cinnamon and paint.

His hand left the small of her back for mere seconds, a forceful gesture sent a barrier thrumming around the perimeter of the room.  The golden sunlight of the afternoon spilled over her face here; she still did not notice the flowers that filled her space.

Solas broke their kiss with a salacious wet smooching sound and stared with love-lidded eyes into her face.  He spoke Elvish to her, his hot heavy words weighing against her as much as his strong body did.  His honeyed voice made no attempt to whisper – hearing their ancient tongue used in this way struck her to the core with lust. 

“Una.  You create a hunger in me that I have not felt since before fairytales existed.  I have seen more of the world than any creature living, yet I cannot say for sure if I have _ever_ felt the draw of the flesh the way you make me feel it. 

 _Ma vhenan,_ you know now that the Dalish are half-wrong about my temperament.  Your people, in spite of their intentions, have forgotten and contorted endless truths, and my nature is not the worst of it.” 

His eyes left her as his hot mouth moved to tongue her ear, summoning a whining moan as her lust pooled on the robes beneath her.  A violent sweeping of his arm sent dishes crashing from her desk as he lay her down, the pressure of his body never leaving her.  He took great care to sweep her hair over the edge of the desk behind her head, lest she lay on it.  Melliferous effervescence shimmered in the air around him, the likes of which she had never seen – was it his aura manifest?  His voice in her ear flooded her senses. Her name on his lips melted her bones.

“My beautiful goddess, your people know _nothing_ of the art of pleasing an elven woman _,_ especially one as powerful and radiant as you.” His fingers wove into her hair again as he slid his knee up to press between her thighs, his voice heavy with promises. “I will worship you, Una, oblivious to the rising and setting of the sun.  I will show you pleasures time has forgotten.  When you faint with exhaustion and ecstasy beneath me, I will find you in your dreams and start again.  Time in this world will stop as I spend untold eternities making love to you.” 

His every fiber poised with eons-long sexual tension, her fluttering moan of excitement at his words was all the bidding he needed.  His grip on the base of her skull tightened as he yanked her into his passionate kiss.  Time melted away as he said it would; the world may crumble to dust around them, and still his urgent mouth would steal her breath.

He broke the kiss again and gently lay her head on her hard desk, straddling her thighs.  His gaze commanded her attention, never leaving her face as he slowly removed his doublet and tunic.  Her admiring hands came up to run over his lower stomach as he lifted his shirt, one finger hooking into the fastener of his pants.  She purred with lewd teasing as her eyes left his face, wandering a waistline carved of stone.  She stared with unflinching desire at the seizing arousal ‘neath his breeches.

 _“Mmm_ …Fen’Harel, your body is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  And you _do_ have a belly button.  Mellina owes me a steak dinner.”  A sultry chuckle as he gently pinched her cheek, tossing his shirt on the floor.  Her fingers worked deftly, attempting to free the hulking bulge she could not tear her eyes from.  He firmly stopped her, bringing her fingers up to his mouth and sucking them, his tongue hot wet velvet against her fingertips.  She reeled with delight as he leaned down to her again, but she would not be denied; her free hand grabbed hungrily at his throbbing trousers, ripping a wonderful growling moan from his throat.

He had her by the wrists in a moment, holding her hands above her head as he pinned her to the desktop and kissed her hotly.  His voice flowed like molten chocolate. “ _Not yet_ , _ma vhenan_. It is nowhere near time for that.” 

He took to kissing her again, her wrists still clasped in one strong hand, as the other found the knot securing her robe.  He swept silk and fur aside with slow reverence, revealing her naked body racked with lust.  His face began to sink from hers as he released his grip on her wrists, his unhurried mouth exploring her body. 

He whispered with a sing-song lilt in Elvish between lapping nibbles, powder pink nipples taut with his attentions. Thoughts of his gaze in the mirror set her lashes fluttering as she gasped at the intensity of pleasure he summoned in her breast.  Prayers she had never heard, too beautiful to translate, rolled from his lips like music.  Words of longing and infatuation, a refrain of ravenous worship that set her heart alight. 

She cooed with love, her hands caressed his head as he moved down her body.  The effervescent glow about him seemed to intensify the longer he whispered against her.

As she listened to his velvety voice, she began to realize how her nerves danced at his electric touch, a sensation the likes of which she’d never felt or heard of.  His fingertips over her nipples, his soft lips nibbling at her stomach – the slightest grazing sent tremors through her, set her gasping, sent voracious spasms through her sex, sent her clutching white-knuckled at the edge of the desk. 

His ministrations were so pleasurable she found it difficult to breathe and think.  In spite of her eager entreaties on the floor, Una feared the loss of control his touch brought burgeoning in her, for she had never surrendered herself to passion. 

She’d had no _idea_ how overwhelming Fen’Harel would be, and he had not yet reached her center.  Her heart pounded with anxiety as he slid gracefully from the desk to kneel on the floor, pulling her towards him by the backs of her knees.  Fur and silk whispered with an effortless glide across her desk.

She was lost to urgent moaning as he lifted her inner thigh to his face, his lewd tongue running the length from knee to crease of groin.  His deep voice rumbled with delight at the ambrosial taste of slick arousal he lapped from her skin. 

She writhed and trembled from the overwhelming sensation of his tongue on her leg, fumbling up to lean on her hands, staring down at the top of his head with trepidation bordering on fear.  This was more than passion; there was magic at work here, old and pleasurable, meant for the body of an immortal woman. It struck her then that he was truly a god; in her rush to love him, she had forgotten this simple truth.  Her heart lurched wildly as she doubted her ability to handle it. 

“Solas, what _is_ thi-“ 

A knowing chuckle as he kissed the inside of the knee he held aloft.  He ignored her broken question.  His words were hot against the sensitive skin inside her thigh.

“ _Emma lath,_ you surely are a goddess, for your exquisite taste is beyond the imaginings of men.” His hands ran up the outside of her thighs reverently as he set her leg over his shoulder.

He sent that same sensuous lick up the inside of her other thigh, long and slow.  Hungry for the taste of her, he moaned in appreciation as if her juices were the rarest delicacy.  She cursed and arched her back, her knees shuddering against his strong shoulders, her legs reflexively drawing closed with pleasure.   His firm and loving grip atop her thighs kept her body exposed to his face.

She was breathless and dizzy. “Solas, wuh, wait - I don’t know if I can _handle_ this.”

“Mmm…?”  He paused his progress, kissing that same spot on her knee and resting his cheek against the inside of her thigh as he looked up at her tense face.  His handsome expression was one of insurmountable love and patience.  His eyebrows posed a wordless question as his steady gaze sought to calm her.

“It just –…it feels _too_ good, Solas, I can’t – “  She felt a flush coming to her cheeks as her knees sought to draw closed in embarrassment.  He released his grip, allowing her blushing modesty, and her knees squeezed tight against his neck.  His strong arms hugged her legs, and he reached aside to drape her sex-slicked robe over her exposed body.  He kissed that little spot on her knee again, three slow sweet kisses and a caress of her thigh.  His smooth voice laced with mirth instantly calmed her; as he spoke, he felt her legs start to relax.

“Beautiful one.  From the moment I first learned your name, I have stood by your side and watched you suffer agonies unnumbered, many that would kill men thrice your size.  Never once, in all the horrors we have faced together, have I seen you lose yourself to pain.  Are you so afraid of losing yourself to pleasure, _emma lath_? Do you mean to say you fear my loving tongue more than a fire-breathing dragon?”

She made no answer, just an uncertain coo at him.  He snuggled at her legs and hummed with love, his soft gaze holding her own.

“Let your guard down for me, _ma vhenan_.  You have trusted me with your life countless times, just as I now trust you with secrets even the heavens must not know.  Relax, sweet Una, and lose yourself to me.  Were you not begging for me on the floor with lustful eyes before, whispering sweet stories of self-pleasure and longing?” A laugh in his voice now, he patted her leg. “I will not murder you with pleasure, dearest love. Trust me.”

“Solas…” He allowed her to slide her knees from his shoulders and sit upright.  She did not notice the _valunin_ he slyly plucked into his palm from the floor beside her desk before he stood to meet her.  She leaned forward to embrace him with gratitude, her blushing cheek hot against his bare chest.  He held her tight and stroked her messy hair, kissing the top of her head as he glanced at the sunny balcony doors.  She felt the rumble of a joyous chuckle in his chest and her heart soared with his love.

“ _Emma lath_ , you never cease to surprise me.  In your ferociousness and your shyness, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

He swept his blushing lover into his arms then, carrying her like a new bride across the room to her bed as he whispered in her ear.  “I should be more considerate of your comfort, my love, I apologize.  I do not think you realize the effect you have on me.”

He lay her down and climbed into bed with her, delighting at her coy and playful giggle.  A flick of his wrist closed the curtains from afar, shutting out the peeping afternoon sun; her crackling hearth became the only light.  He pulled her downy blanket over their heads with a flamboyant tug as he slid down to bring his eyes level with her own.  He grinned at her boyishly as they lay facing each other. 

That same honeyed glow on his body gently illuminated their new secret place. One calming hand cupped her cheek, and he whispered to her as if they were children hiding together.  His other hand remained occupied with secrets.  His blue eyes roamed her face, seeking affirmation.  “Is this better?”

She kissed him timidly in response.  His strong arms surrounded her as he lovingly kissed her back, his lips electric once again.  He eased her onto her back and slid over her, that old jawbone of his plonking to rest between her breasts as he looked down on her with a smile. “Good.  Now, you are safe, _emma lath_ , and no one else in the world can hear or see us.  Just you and me, hmm?  Relax, sweet thing, and be yourself. _Ma’arlath_.”

Her lashes fluttered as she turned her face away from him, her cheeks still hot with blushing. “Solas, _abela-_ “ 

His fingertip found her lips and shushed her as he shook his head. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for.” 

She kissed his fingertip, which left her mouth and pressed her cheek, bidding her to turn and look at him. She spoke again. “ _Emma lath_ , you have been so wonderful and patient. Any woman would be on her hands and knees for a man half as loving as you, and I have ruined it.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he shook his head slowly, looking into her eyes.  His gaze darkened with lust as he whispered to her, his voice hoarse with passion.  “Are you so blind to the pleasure you bring me, _Inquisitor_ , or are you being coy?  It is cruel to torture me so.” 

He took her hand, pressing her palm against the painfully hard cock in his trousers.  As she watched his blue eyes flutter closed, his face contorting in ecstasy at her touch, his lips parting to bare pearly teeth in a hungry groan, the fire in her stomach blazed anew and her inhibitions fell away as if they’d never been. _I would know the pleasures my new god can bring; let us have it._ A soft moan parted her own lips as she rubbed his shaft through taut damp fabric. 

He did not deny her prying fingers this time, his chest humming with excitement as he rolled beneath her.  She threw the blankets off and he laughed encouragingly at her boldness as she straddled him and kissed his neck.  He stole a breath in her hair as she began her descent, kissing her way down his torso.  Solas propped himself up on his fist to watch her, adoringly stroking her hair as she nibbled his waistline.  She yanked urgently at his loosened pants, and he lifted his hips as she slid them down his legs and tossed them aside, smallclothes and all.

She heard a hissing intake of breath through his teeth as his manhood sprang free from his tight pants, saw his fingers clench the sheets at his side.  She admired his body hungrily; minutes ago, the sight of him would have sent her anxious heart alight with concern over technical, physical incompatibility.

Solas was nearly twice the size of the most endowed lover in her past.  He was like nothing she had ever seen, but something she’d _imagined_. This body could fulfill untold fantasies of powerful, body-rending thrusts bordering on violent, a fullness near to breaking that she knew only in her frequent, vulgar dreams.  To say that she felt fortunate was an understatement.  Later, she would ponder the dilution of Elvhen blood and its effects on anatomy.  Solas  _was_ quite tall.

Her green gaze rose to his face and found him watching as she sweetly curled her soft hand around his throbbing piece, thrilling as his primal moans split the still air of her chambers.  She had always longed for a vocal lover, and here he finally was.  His gaze danced between her eyes and hands as she toyed with him, his urgent hips bucking helpless at her grasp.  The mischievous sparkle in her eyes aroused him as she spoke, her voice deep and smooth with lust.

“What trickery is this? Even in giggling fireside legends, no Elvhen man has a body like _this_.”  She ran her sloppy tongue up the underbelly of his shaft, causing him to squirm and groan desperately. “Just what do you intend to _do_ to such a dainty lady with such a hulking cock, wicked Fen’Harel? _Mmm?_ ”

His voice was strained and hoarse.  He spoke through clenched teeth, clearly irritated.  His charming demeanor of fairytale romance crumbled to carnality under the lash of her dirty-talking, sopping, slurping tongue.  “ _Asha_ , I have had this body for untold ages.  It isn’t – _Fuck!_ ”

Her mouth and hands attended his body with sudden voracity, causing him to exclaim in profane pleasure as his strong fingers clenched the hair at the back of her head, one fist punching sideways at her headboard with a rattling _BANG!_   She thrilled at the conquest of his lost composure – she had never heard him curse in Common Tongue.  She redoubled eager efforts without mercy.

His head fell back as he groaned, loud and hungry, his bucking hips threatening to choke her.  She mouthed smooth orbs as hands slick with salivation yanked him, sending him careening into sharp multi-lingual curses.  She heard the dramatic sound of linen ripping under the force of his white-knuckled grasp, his body sinewy with tension and delight, and she heard him cry her name.

 **His** heart now raced with trepidation, what wits he had were scrambling.  _Gods_ , her filthy _talk_ , the shameless eroticism of her actions with his body, the _ecstasy_ she cooked in him _,_ the lewd way her delicate breasts jumped beneath her robe that billowed open when her mouth jerked eagerly around him. 

Even as he lost himself to pleasure in her touch, he knew that her unbridled lust would not be satisfied with the gentle love-making worship of a hopeless romantic who pleased sighing, blushing maidens in ages past. 

This lover was no maid of Arlathan.  Though Una was compassionate, she was also Dalish, cut from hardship and chaotic, primal wilderness.  One of the most powerful creatures to walk the earth, a beauty bidding legions sink to begging knees.  She gave and received love with him, and that was well and wonderful – but it was _fucking_ her body demanded of him now.  Her every word and action beckoned to the beast in him, which he had never once unleashed upon a woman.  And she, a _mortal._

He’d promised just minutes ago not to hurt her, as she lay blushing on her desk, a different woman. 

_Gods help us both._

A gentle portion of his heart feared he may lose himself to licentious passion, hurt her, and not _care._  The rest of him was more than eager to oblige her command, to indulge the dark desires that he’d kept locked away since ancient youth.

His warring heart fell back; he could stand her sharp pleasures no longer. Patience broke with a snarl as he stopped her and surged forward to grab her roughly by the arse, rising from the bed with her pinned against his naked, rippling body.  Her cries of delight urged him on.

Romance forgotten, Fen’Harel knocked his flowers from her bedside table with a shattering crash.  He set her there and pushed her hard against the wall.  He fell to his knees, his strong hands forcing _her_ knees up and back harshly to bare her glistening pink slit.  The harsh handling made her beg his name with urgent whining, pleading for him as he licked her slick arousal from her inner thighs, former slow reverie replaced with primal aggression.

He buried his face in her slick cunt, devouring her to the sound of her screaming delight.  She clawed the back of his head and his shoulders as she cried out in ecstasy, her would-be bucking hips held fast by a stone grip that stretched her hips to their limit.  He sucked her clit harshly, nipping and probing her pink flesh with his mouth, a possessive growl rumbling in his chest.

She screamed over and over at him about how good it felt, begging him not to stop, cursing, mewling, a wild animal in his grasp.  He roughly grabbed one of her hands from its bloody clawing at his neck and bade her spread herself, holding one leg aloft for him as his long finger slipped into her tight, sopping center.

His lips and tongue worked ceaselessly as he slowly probed her, adding a second digit as he felt her taut body accept his slender presence.  She writhed and howled, her free hand leaving the back of his head to spread herself even further apart for him, her body begging for more.

She was near tears as she pleaded for his cock, her body clutching at his fingers like a starving animal.  His mouth broke free from her, his glistening face turning to devour her breast with sharp, grazing teeth. His deft thumb slid up to take his tongue’s place, luxuriously swirling against her swollen clit.

He spoke then, his lecherous voice a shadow of itself, deep and growling.  “I have longed to share this gift with you for _months_ now. _Mmm,_ I cannot wait to feel you _writhe_.”  He took her nipple in his mouth once more, his free hand squeezing red marks into her soft thigh.

She’d felt his thumb move up to take his mouth’s place as his unhurried fingers pumped her, but then something else – something bumpy and swirly, hard like metal, warm from time spent clutched in his fist.  She felt his thumb gently press the _valunin_ over her clit, heard him whisper something in Elvish, and felt it start to slowly twist and swirl against her.  Her cries renewed with urgency as she bucked against his hand, begging him all the more to fuck her.

Her heart raced with anticipation as she felt him slowly withdraw his slick fingers, a beautifully terrifying threat rumbling in his throat.  He rose to his feet and leaned forward over her, placing her ankles on his shoulders and staring with treacherous, beastial greed into her eyes.  She licked her own juices from his glistening cleft chin as he leaned down to kiss her hungrily, their teeth gnashing. 

She could feel the head of his cock teasing at her.  She squealed with urgency into his mouth as he stole her breath, holding her bucking hips fast as he spread her apart with his hands on the backs of her thighs.  The intensity of that supernatural tingling heat grew exponentially, leaving her screaming desperate pleas down his throat as he sucked her tongue. She felt sharp pressure as his rock-hard cock pierced her body with painstaking slowness, the fit so tight she could feel his pulse.

They were barely coupled, and she came like a clap of thunder from the size of him.  The _valunin_ still swirling slow and merciless on her clit, she groaned and screeched wildly down his throat as her fingernails raked bloody scratches in the surging muscles of his back. He held her shaking legs fast as he stayed his advance, groans rumbling in his own throat as her tight cunt spasmed around him.

She heard a dark chuckle then as he slowly guided her legs to his waist, sliding his strong hands under her arse and lifting her.  Her smooth skin gleaned slippery with sweat and sex.  She clutched his shoulders as he broke their long kiss and stepped to the side of the nightstand with her in his strong arms, pressing her back into the cold stone wall.  A good thing his grip was sure – there were flowers and broken shards of pottery strewn beneath her on the floor. If he tread to injury, he did not show or know it.

She mewled his name and licked his cheek lewdly before her head fell back against the wall.  He buried his face in her hair and groaned with greed as he pushed deeper into her, urged by her thrashing cries of pleasure.  His strained voice at her neck gave her goosebumps, although she could barely spare the attention to hear and understand him.  _Merciless_ , the _valunin_ was _merciless_ with pleasures.

“You are so _tight, emma lath._ I see now why my body gave you pause.  You came for me, and I have barely started.  I will see you faint before I’ve had my fill of you.” 

His wet tongue roved into her ear.  Fen’Harel wrapped his last ounce of concern for her safety up in words and held it out to her in offering, one last chance to stop his savage lust from breaking on her body.  His voice was thick and hoarse with holding back.  “Una…I don’t want to _hurt_ you.”

One of her hands left his back and clutched his ass, pulling him deeper with a lewd groan. She whimpered with delight, her slurred words barely comprehensible. _“_ Fadewalker, _oh_ _fuck,_ don’t stop, _please gods_ , it’s so good, _it’s so guh-uh-udddd!_ ”  And she _bit_ him, latching to the crook of his neck like a rabid animal as her body contorted with ecstasy against the wall, her nails digging deep gashes in his flesh.

He grinned wide as his eyes rolled back from the sweet pain of her sharp teeth.  His dripping tongue licked salty sweat from her throat when her head fell back.  He purred hot Elvish in her ear, his voice strained with pleasure. “Una, you are _magnificent._ I have never in my _life_ felt ecstasy such as this. _Gods,_ you are so _good_. No being ever existed who deserved the delight of you. Your glory shames Mythal herself. _”_

His fingertips dug into the flesh of her buttocks then, his hips rocking in languid strokes that sent her caterwauling.  She felt her back leave the wall, a spinning, rough fibers against her back – he had her on the rug now, bearing down on her as she groaned and whined for more, harder, deeper, the lewdest phrases spilling from her mouth as she urged him to lose himself and fuck her senseless.  She bit at him with savagery, raked his flesh with her nails, sucked bruises into his skin.

All concerns for the welfare of her delicate body fell away as her urgings made a beast of him.  The sounds he made would have terrified most women; indescribable masculine snarls of primal lust loud enough to wake the dead echoed in her chambers. 

He left bruises on her breasts and shoulders with his sucking, biting mouth.  He pressed her knees into the hard floor as he fucked her, rough and unyielding, his hulking member stretching her body beyond her wildest fantasies, his balls hitting her with loud wet slaps.  If not for the soundproofing barrier that glimmered in the dark, all of Thedas would hear the Herald of Andraste screaming at the pagan Dread Wolf to fuck her ‘til she bled and died.

Her legs quaked as another orgasm, one of countless many, racked her body with brutal writhing.  Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and he hammered her relentlessly through it all.  His hungry mouth found hers and kissed her savagely, feeding on her helpless moaning climax.

The prolonged convulsions of her tight body sent him spilling.  His hands left her legs to clutch her hair behind her head, pulling her face against his own as he groaned wildly down her throat, busting his lip open to bleed on her teeth with the force of his jerking kiss. She cried out with muffled delight as his heat exploded inside of her, both hands clutching his ass as her hungry body winked against him, greedy for every last drop of his passion.

The beast in him settled tame in the wake of his climax, and he snuggled his body against her on the floor, easing out of primal lust into making love.  His cadence slowed to luxurious strokes, sensations now velvety thick with his come.  The squelching sound of his movements delighted her, as did his salty blood in their mouths and on their faces.  Her legs twined lovingly around his hips as she cooed into his mouth, tongues caressing one another. 

His hand came between them, removing the _valunin_ from her aching clit to allow her some relief.  She broke their kiss and sprawled back helpless on the floor, her hair splayed wildly around her, her eyes fluttering as she moaned beneath him, delirious and half-unconscious with pleasure.  She could feel the hot wetness of their sex pooling beneath her on the rug, and she _loved_ it.  Even though she absolutely ached from the forceful size of him, she begged him ceaselessly for more into the small hours of the morning.


	27. Do All Elves Love This Way?

Her head fell to the side, her muttering lips losing volume and sense as her body went limp beneath him.  She whispered that she loved him, and she fell asleep.

He stilled, tenderly kissing her lips, running loving fingers down the contour of her thigh.  He withdrew from her, their bodies making the lewdest sucking sound as he broke that tight seal.  His insatiable body raged at him for leaving the warm enshrinement of her love.

He stayed for a time, supporting himself above her as he brushed sweaty hair from her forehead and caressed her face, worshipping her beauty in the firelight as she slept.  He noticed rug burn on her elbow and tsked quietly, curling gentle fingers around her arm to turn and see it better. 

Emerging from their haze of endless pleasure then, he leaned back to survey the damage he’d done her body in his passion, knees still between her own.  She was covered in hickeys and bite marks, her thighs and hips peppered with bruises from his frenzied grip.  Was that _his_ blood smeared on her face? His lungs turned inside out with guilt and shock and shame as he stared transfixed at her battered body on the floor.  A caring hand cupped between her legs to check for blood, relieved at finding only throbbing, slipping heat.

_Gods, what have I done to this innocent creature? I **ravaged** her._

He saw the contented, purring smile on her sleeping face then, and remembered how desperately she’d begged for savagery; he could still hear her cries of ecstasy escalating with his aggression.  He had never _intended_ to unleash himself so fully on her.  She _commanded_ it of him, and would have stood for nothing less.

A crooked grin crossed his face as he shook his head in disbelief. He squinted down at his flesh beneath her nails, her fingertips streaked with his dried blood from violent, raking passion.  He leaned down to her once more, cupping her face and kissing her sweaty forehead, whispering into her sleeping ear. “You are _amazing_ , _emma lath_ , and I will be your eager slave until you tire of me. I pray you never will.”

He rose to his feet and scooped her up tenderly, intending to put her to bed.  He chuckled when he turned around and saw the mess they’d made of her chamber. Broken pottery and trampled flowers here, shattered dishes and discarded food there.  And her bed – her blankets were tangled in knots on the floor, a gaping tear yawned in her sheets, her pillows were all over the room. 

He let his cheek come to rest on her sweaty forehead as he stood there naked with his eyes sparkling at the mess, still grinning like a fool.  “You deserve a better bed than this, my love, but I do not think I can take your unconscious body to my open room without concerning our friends.”

He placed her in her tattered bed, gathering her pillows and shaking the tangles from her comforter.  A dinner napkin dipped in chilled bathwater served to wipe his dried blood from her face; he would not leave her bloodied in her bed again.

His erection was only just beginning to withdraw its insistence, reluctantly accepting a temporary hiatus from the delightful chore of loving.  He sighed pleasantly as he straightened from tucking her in, cracking his neck and arching his back.  His body ached with sweet exhaustion, he stung all over as though he’d been attacked by bees.  He hadn't felt so alive in millennia.  It was _wonderful_.

He sidestepped the broken pottery on her floor.  Her poor rug, he thought.  A glass of icewine the other night, her expensive perfume – he’d knocked and broken that, too, at some point in their pursuits – the slick and fragrant puddle of sex he stepped in on his way to view himself in the mirror.

 He laughed out loud at the state of himself.

Solas had been roughed up by a bear before, and yes, this looked certifiably worse.  Deep scratches burned on his chest, his stomach, his back, his buttocks, his hips, his _head,_ his fucking _face_ – everywhere the woman could reach she had shredded him, not to mention the bruises, the bites that pierced his skin.  His fingers rose to touch his blood-crusted lip, and he noticed his hands still smelled of her.  He breathed her sweet scent long and deep, closing his eyes reverently as he muttered against his hand.  “ _Incredible.”_

He leaned over her bath tub to briskly splash cold water on his face, droplets pink with blood dripping from his chin.  As for the scrapes and bruises… _chuckle_.  He would treasure them until the morning.  Unfortunately, he could not wear his badges of love to breakfast.

He could not stop smiling at his good fortune. Afire with her love, his heart sang with the sonority of all the choirs in Thedas.  With silent steps he crossed the room and parted the curtains, stepping out into the cool night air of her balcony to bask in the moonlight and savor his joy.  He leaned with his elbows on the banister and looked out into the mountains, his sweaty, ravaged body glistening in the light of the sinking moon like snow.

He stayed that way as he spoke to the shadow curled up against the wall at the far end of her balcony, his tone smug, a little sarcastic, and a little more impressed.

“I am curious how you come to be all the way up here, as you can no longer apparate.  And with a pewter bird feeder, no less.  I am sure the Inquisitor will be thrilled with it, but could it not wait ‘til morning?  It is a long way down, my friend, and you are not immune to dying.” 

Cole said nothing, his expression unseen as he stared at Solas in the moonlight.  Were he still a spirit, he would not be so… _rattled_ to see his friend’s naked body, his intimidating, gleaming, hairless sex lost on the road between arousal and sensibility.

Solas could feel Cole’s staring eyes, and it was as though he read the young man’s thoughts.  The self-critical thoughts of a youth hopelessly sheltered, now, instead of a disconnected spirit.  He was saddened by it, but loved Cole just the same.

“I am Elvhen, Cole, and quite your senior.  Our bodies are different by nature.  There is nothing wrong with you.”

Cole tore his eyes away as if to deny his concern.

“I found Veyla crying in the garden today, she said you two were fighting.  She was terrified and angry.  I came to see.”

Solas had not seen Cole for the better part of a fortnight, and marveled to himself at the leaps and bounds of his humanity.  Inflections as he spoke, sentences complete and coherent, a presence of mind like a man.  Paternal pride warred with mourning the loss of such an innocent, compassionate spirit. 

The protective undertones in Cole’s voice as he spoke of Veyla certainly gave Solas something to chew on, gave his heart even more to war over.  He noticed Cole was not wearing his hat, and wondered if his little halla calf still hoarded it away.

As for the confrontation?  Solas ignored its mention.

“I have not seen you lately, Cole.  I wondered where you were.  You seem to be doing quite well, and I am glad for that.”

Cole sounded sheepish and guilty.  He spoke around chewing his fingernails, a nervous little habit he’d developed out of nowhere.  “I’ve been hiding from you.  I told her, Solas, or I mostly did.  I think you fought because of me.  I’m sorry.  I tried to take it back, she wouldn’t let me.  She can be so _scary_.”

Solas laughed joyously, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.  He nodded knowingly as his gaze scanned the horizon.  He was surprised to hear this news, but not upset.  “Yes, she most certainly can be!  I am not cross with you, Cole.  Tenacious as she is, she would have found me out eventually, unless she lost interest in doing so.  Actually, I believe I owe you my gratitude.  The night you trespass on has been most fortuitous for me, and may have never happened without you.”

Cole’s voice became grave. “She knows Fen’Harel would remake the world, others too, but yours is full of grace to her.  The world is dying.  She isn’t stupid.  Whoever would paint the future, they will only succeed with her blessing.  So, yes.  I think you are lucky.”

Solas turned bodily to look at Cole with one hand on the banister and the other at his waist, oblivious to his glistening flaccid cock.  His eyebrows were curious.  “My friend, you helped her see the truth of me.  I cannot believe that I am grateful to you for it, but I am.  Tell me, do you know who or… _what_ our Inquisitor is?”

Cole rose to his feet, making to look out on the horizon.  It did not interest him, but his friend’s nudity was making him uncomfortable.  He wondered if it wasn’t supposed to.  “You _know_ you are the Dread Wolf.  She doesn’t know or wonder at herself, she’s just the river bastard from a mud puddle.  She doesn’t _care_.  She only wants to _do_.”

Solas nodded solemnly, looking back out at the mountains. “Yes, I assumed as much.”

“You chide her for not sleeping, and you haven’t.  I thought you were killing each other in there.” Cole’s lips tightened as he fought a blushing smile, muttering as he pulled his chin to his chest.  “I don’t understand it.”

Solas’ eyebrows shot up.  He laughed, startled but unembarrassed. He must admit, he had not planned for Cole’s abilities when cooking up their hasty privacy.  “You _heard_ us?”

“Searing electric heat…What _is_ this?  It _aches_ , it’s too much, it’s not enough I need more - I’ll die if he stops, I’ll die, _fuck –“_

Cole stopped and shook his head, clearly bewildered.  “It does not make sense.  I have heard it before, but not like _that_. Why have you wanted _that_ so much? It seems horrible, and you still want _more_.” 

Cole eyed Solas longways, looking over his passion scratches with another shake of his head.  “She _mauled_ you.  It _hurts_.  You and spicy food do _not_ make sense.”

Solas chuckled sexily at Cole’s bemused expression.  “I cannot explain this to you, my friend, other than to tell you it is worth it.”

Cole shook his head again.  “I do not believe your words, but I feel the truth of them in you.  You are both…satisfied. Tell me. Do all elves love this way?”

Solas could not help but notice the weight the young man gave his question.  He paused a beat before he answered, stopping himself from scowling with suspicion.  “No, Cole, not all elves give love this way.  Race has nothing to do with the preferences of a body’s pleasure.  We are all unique.”

No sigh of relief, but a firm and short nod. “Good.  You should sleep.”

“You are probably right.  I advise you to take the stairs, you are welcome to come through.”

Cole shook his head and waved his hand dismissively, folding his arms on the banister as he tapped his toe against the ground behind him.  Actually, he found he quite liked staring thoughtfully out at the mountains.

“Very well.  Goodnight, Cole.”  Rubbing his face tiredly, Solas walked back inside, leaving the door open.  He could not sleep in those hot temperatures she craved, and the room needed fresh air.

He collapsed into bed beside her, his passion scratches hissing with sweet burning at the touch of crumpled sheets.  Solas was accustomed to sleeping on much firmer surfaces, but he was too tired to care, and besides, her warm and beautiful company would be worth sleeping in a tub of slugs or pudding.  He rejoiced to have her companionship in sleep, his most holy undertaking. 

Snuggling close, he draped an arm and leg over her as he twirled her messy hair in his fingers, kissing her temple as she slept peacefully.  His loving cheek found purchase on her soft breast, and he inhaled long and deep as his eyes slid closed.  _Mmm,_ she was warm and soft, and her breath, and her scent, and her heartbeat. _Yes._   It was more blissful than he’d imagined, just as everything about her was.

He muttered as he fell asleep. “ _Emma lath,_ I have always slept alone, but never knew the word _alone_ until I fell in love with you.  My heart has ached _so much_ for this togetherness, for you…”

A long, deep sigh of pleasure. “ _Ma’arlath_. This is the best night of my life.”

\---

He plucked the little yellow pinion she’d given him from his pants pocket and spun it ‘twixt rough fingers as his elbows kept the banister, his mind a thousand miles from the sleeping lovers at his back.  He ran the feather idly back and forth against the palm of his other hand, enjoying the gentle tickle. 

He would not return to his room tonight, for she was sleeping in his bed.  She’d been too upset and frightened to sleep on their surrogate father’s sofa in the rotunda, and Cole insisted. Oh, how his heart lubbed to glimpse her face snuggling his pillow as she squeezed his hat to her chest when he bent to snuff the candle before leaving.  He thought her ears, especially with her chaotic boyish haircut, were... _cute_. He was pretty sure the word was cute.

A vagabond for the night, Cole was growing tired.  This human body commanded sleep of him, and it annoyed him a great deal.  Eating, too.  He’d gone skinny for a while until Varric had a talk with him.  Bathing, bowing, grooming, holding doors for ladies, going to the bathroom, not picking your nose – not chewing your _fingernails_ , Josephine enlightened him, which vexed him even more.  Being a man was _work_.

But it was worth it.  He smiled to himself as he reflected on their night together, ducking and laughing through the bustling nighttime streets of Belle Marché in black lacquered masks with golden filigree, breaking into the theater, eating spicy meatballs on sticks.  The way she’d laughed uproariously when he hurled the contents of his stomach in an alleyway that reeked of piss.

Fun did not make sense to Cole. Still, he found he didn’t need to understand it to enjoy it. 

He also found he dreaded going back into the fray.  The Inquisitor awake, he knew a fight would soon follow, and then another – _endless_ , causing pain to prevent more, trusting her to make the right decisions, ending opposition with a whispering and fluid deadly grace.  She took him everywhere, trusted him, mother father uncle son, forging safety, ending suffering.

He hoped the war would end soon, for he did not know how much more killing he could take.  The youth who pulled a face at love now found he had a taste for it; he longed to take her laughing hand and run, and never kill again.


	28. Four Times an Orphan

She slammed the door with all her might, and she ran crying.  Memories of the day her pretend mother left her burned with wetness on her cheeks. 

“I’m coming with you.”  She appeared out of nowhere in the misty dark of early morning, packed to the gills for travel to the Conclave.  She had everything she’d need, and nothing more.  She felt mature, she felt ready, and her heart could not bear to part from Una.

A hurt and loving sigh as Una turned to face the sneaking child, a ginger-coloured glow spilling from the ironbark staff at her back over the half-fledged markings on Veyla’s face. Her loving voice was inked with chiding as she pulled the girl in for a hug.  “Veyla… _da’vhenan,_ I told you.  I must go alone.”

So stubborn was the girl, she left Una no choice but to force the struggling child asleep with magic, carrying her three hours’ walk back to camp to place her in her bedroll.  Una’s heart was filled with sorrow when she kissed Veyla’s sleeping lips and walked away.

Veyla woke late, still fully dressed for travel, and she looked around confused.  She curled up in her bedroll and cried ‘til the afternoon, felt the burning scorn of judging eyes she’d been abandoned to, eyes that did not love her. 

Una never came back.

In that day Veyla knew the pain of losing mother twice, one dead and one abandoning.  Tonight her second father bade her leave his side instead of comforting her fears, forsaking Veyla’s timid trust to leave her crying unattended in the garden.  The young elf wailed helpless and alone, her heart more broken than a child four times an orphan.

\---

“Of course kid, I’ll teach you how to use it!  It’ll be a piece of cake after shaving with that knife of yours – no wonder you look like you’ve been squeezing cats to your face.”

Cole laughed eagerly, his face a picture of elation.  Laughter came easier with every passing day, especially when traveling with Varric.  The pair, enjoying their reprieve from duty while the Inquisitor lay indisposed, had palled around all over Thedas.

Today they spent the morning into lunchtime shopping Belle Marché, their waddling walk back to the waystone burdened with _stuff_.  A replacement copy of _Coming of Age: A Guide for Young Gentlemen_ , a gilded shaving set, new quills and ink for Varric – the things kept walking off from him – a pewter birdfeeder, most ornate and over-sized, a dozen of the finest paint pigments, and countless other bags of _bags_ of clothes and toiletries and things, contents forgotten in the thrill of acquisition.  Cole had gifts for _everyone_.

Cole found that he _loved_ Belle Marché.  These streets contained a wealth of knowledge and newness positively endless, one shop could hold his interest for hours.  After today, more than a few shopkeeps knew the young man by name, some less for his excited queries than for the coin that flowed from him in all directions.  

Every street urchin and wayward soul Cole passed received alms beyond their dreams.  His coin purse empty, his heart soared with the joy he brought the town.  He decided money was a very good thing, but wished he hadn’t acquired it all through killing.

“Have I told you how ridiculous you look, hauling that bird feeder around?  You really should have bought it _last_ , kid.  Aren’t your arms tired?”  A muttering, then, as they stood before the waystone.  “How are we supposed to use the waystone with all this _shit?”_

A good natured smile, and so much handsome eye contact.  An inclination of his head beneath that floppy hat.  He never called her Inquisitor.  “It isn’t _shit,_ it’s presents for our friends.  My arms are tired, but I know Una will love it!  I need her to, she’ll probably still be mad at me when she wakes up.  Do gifts always make people forgive you, Varric?”

A chuckle.  “Hell, no!  I don’t know where you got _that_ idea.”  There was more to discuss here about friendship and forgiveness, but Varric was kindly finished coaching Cole today.

Cole paused, a little crestfallen but ultimately unperturbed.  “Oh.  Well, I hope it works.  This thing is heavy.”  A muttering of his own.  “I should have got the hat for Solas, too.  I should go back.”

Varric overheard him and took a step back, leaned sideways, gave Cole a booted kick in his left butt cheek that made him yelp and giggle. “I told you, Cole: If you buy that sodding hat, I’m leaving your ass here to starve in the streets!  _Enough_ , already.  Let’s get back.”

And they did. 

The moment his feet touched the ground, her despair hit him like a slug in the chest. His joyful face turned lightening quick to dread, a tight gasp left his throat.

_“No.”_

His precious burdens clattered to the ground, instantly less than nothing to him. He rushed to the garden with his trademark deadly haste, leaving Varric puzzled and pissed, calling after Cole with arms full of his shopping.


	29. What's This For?

The garden was the closest thing to home in Skyhold; she came here every day.  She was tucked into a cranny behind two large earthen flower pots.  Her face was numb with cold, her arms and hands and bare feet all the same.  Her heart suffered a blow for every minute spent weeping alone in the cold, wishing one of them would hear her crying and rush to her side with apologies and love.

_“Don’t return until I fetch you.”_

_But you’re never going to. You just want me to stay gone._

A woody fragrant memory of watching hunters work raw ironbark, sticky juniper berries squished between her fingers, leather.  She noticed the new and nostalgic scent of him before the tight embrace hit home, and she was confused.  Just as he had the night he met her stewing in the throne, Cole showed up out of nowhere and jarred her from pouting tears, squeezing into her tiny hiding place on his knees.  His voice was taut with anxiety, and he held her much too tightly.

“Shh, please, don’t cry!  They’ve got-…they’ve got a lot of problems!  It _isn’t_ you.  It would _never_ be you.  Una has her reasons to be angry.  He didn’t want you to see, because he loves you.  _That’s_ why he sent you away.”

She pushed feebly at his chest as if to send _him_ away.  He did not take the hint, and she was glad for it. 

“You don’t _know_ , you weren’t _there!_ He didn’t even _look_ at me!”

Her lamentations renewed their force, her heart summoning an encore to extract much needed sympathy from its new found audience.  Her cheek found purchase on his shoulder, and she proceeded to soak his leather overcoat with tears.  She worked her arms beneath his coat where he was warm and firm, and her fingers timidly curled behind his back.

His face was pained to hear her tortured sobs, and he could not speak fast enough.  His cheeks tingled when she reached beneath his jacket.

“Veyla, _please_ don’t cry.  They were _fighting_ , weren’t they?”

A sniffling sob.  A nod.  Cole appealed to reason, convincing himself, his voice sounding more sure.

“Then he was prob’ly _scared_ of her, Veyla.  You never take your eyes off of someone dangerous when they’re mad like that, even if you love them.”

Skepticism, less crying.  “He didn’t _look_ scared.”

Cole rubbed his gloved hand up and down her back as Una had done for him once, when Solas would not bind him.  Her crying all but stopped in response, and her face moved beneath his coat to join the rest of her.  His heart raced for reasons he could almost understand.  He bowed his head to look at the top of her head as he spoke, the brim of his hat touching her hair.

“Solas never _looks_ scared of something dangerous.  Neither does Una.  Neither do I, I don’t think. We’re warriors, we can’t, it isn’t safe.  But we all _get_ scared sometimes.”

His words gave her a measure of calm.  She found herself pleasantly distracted by the scent of him, her eyes sliding closed as she breathed deep.  The young lady was emotionally exhausted and very much in need of this long hug.  Cole would have thrilled to know the cologne Varric helped him pick was so effective in pleasing her.

Quietly, “You think he loves her?”

Cole winced at the slip-up.  Too late now, and he was trying to break the habit of taking people’s memories away, for a man does not run from his mistakes.  He kept rubbing her back as his eyes tracked for a solution; it made both of them happy, and he liked that.  He found that he was smiling.

He tried something new: He changed the subject.  Surely that didn’t count as running from a mistake?

“Have you ever been to Val Royeaux?”

Relief swelled in him, for he could feel her heartbreak fading as his invitation blossomed in her mind.  He wondered silently why her answer was so flat, when he could swear he felt her heart hitch eagerly.  “I’m Dalish.”

Cole broke their embrace to stand, holding out his gloved hand with a grin. His eyes shone with excitement.  “I have a present for you.” 

She took his hand and rose to her feet as if in a trance, too dumbstruck to be spunky.  He marched her to the Great Hall. 

Though he allowed the door to Una’s chambers a wide berth, Cole caught a glimpse inside Solas’ head as they approached the waypoint and his looming pile of presents.  The mage’s warring mind was racked with fathomless pleasure, guilt over rough desires and foundering self-control.  This twisted Cole’s face in the most awkward smirk, his eyebrows going wonky and his chin tucking down into the collar of his coat.  He heard himself chuckle nervously before clearing his throat with gusto.

Cole wished he hadn’t heard it, but was overjoyed to find his friend’s heart aching sweetly over pleasures in the present instead of bleeding endless over past regrets.  As for Una…she must be quite pleased, he reflected, for he caught not the slightest note of fear or trepidation in his passing.

“ _Wow_ , what _is_ all this?”

Cole was so distracted, he didn’t notice that she let him go and rushed ahead to the colorful pile of things.  He realized, watching her, that Veyla had never seen a paper shopping bag before, let alone the rest of it.  His heart thrilled to see the newness in her eyes as she dove to ferreting, unembarrassed and acting like herself again.  He rushed to her side laughing, joining in the dig.

“Presents!  Those are for Solas.”  She was holding a glass jar in her hand and shaking it, eyeballing purple powder with a question.  He smiled at her and went back to rooting, clearly looking for something in particular.

“Ah! Here! This is for you.”  And he held out a large black bag heavy with _something_ , and she snatched it from him with a gleeful squeal.  He watched as she sent tissue paper flying, marveling first at the shining lacquer mask.  Gold curly-q’s scrawled in fine sparkling black porcelain, it reminded her of gilded vallaslin, but fun.

She looked up at him and jumped – he was wearing the same mask.  It stopped beneath his nose, so she could see him grinning.  “ _Oh,_ they’re pretty Cole, but they’re _creepy!”_

He lifted his mask to ruffle his yellow hair, still smiling at her.  “I know.  But where I’m taking you, you’ll need it.”

She groaned, hopelessly puzzled.  “You’re so _confusing!”_

He took a seat on the ground next to her, poking the bag. He decided not to explain himself, for he had seen the effect mystery could have on women and wanted to try it for himself.  “You’ll see what I mean.  There’s clothes, too, go and change!  They’re for a boy, not a girl, but-…I didn’t think the big frilly dresses suited you at all, and it would make you slow.  You’ll already have a hard time keeping up with me.”

She didn’t need to understand to ruffle at the teasing.  “I will _not!_   I’m _way_ faster than you!”

His eyes sparkled with flirtatious challenge as he jerked his chin at the rotunda, staring her down with a grin.  “Go change, then, and we’ll see.”

\---

When he saw her mouth fall open in amazement, he was sure he was in love.  The orange sunset glinting on her eyes beneath the mask, every inch of her slender body poised for pouncing headfirst into an adventure that she couldn’t understand, but didn’t fear.  An insatiable hunger for knowledge and experience that matched his own, as none had ever _nearly_ done. 

She whispered, sharp and sure, her eyes fixed on bustling market streets crowded with humans.  “This is incredible.”

He thought to take her hand and lead her starry-eyed through Belle Marché, but that was not to be.  In an instant she took his hand and ran, darting from stall to stall, asking nothing, only looking, marveling.  She brushed noblefolk aside and sent them spilling, leaving Cole to call out apologies as he rushed after her with joyous laughter.  He heard one of them hiss _knife ear,_ and a bitter taste rose to scowl in his mouth. The little hat he’d picked for her did not cover her ears. He was very proud of them, he thought them lovely.

Her demeanor changed abruptly, footsteps slowing to a halt outside _Anselmi’s Volary._   He nearly ran her over before stumbling to a stop, perplexed.  His gaze followed her own to low-hanging cages, a menagerie of lovely little birds.  Most would never notice the tiny ironbark blade she was hiding in her palm, so deft was she. Cole’s talents made it obvious to him.

“Cole, will you ask this man what these birds are for?  I’m too shy.”

He knew that for a lie, for not a drop of shyness tinted the determination in her voice.  Later, he would stare out at the mountains and wonder why he’d done it anyway.  He nodded with a gentle smile and walked up to the merchant, making small talk as Veyla ghosted in the background, swift and unnoticed.

The vendor spoke of finches dying caged in mines, and he spoke of birdsong in stately parlors.  He spoke of buntings force-fed and drowned in brandy, an Orlesian delicacy.  He spoke of buying quail and releasing them to hunt for sport. 

A canary, this one tame, alighted on the merchant’s desk.  Only then did he exclaim and spin around to see his feathered stock uncaged, chaotic and absconding.  Veyla rushed from the place in silence, and Cole followed.

This was not the race he’d pictured; he could not _believe_ her speed.   She ducked and weaved through crowds and around corners with fluid grace that left Cole feeling artless and amazed. 

Still, he kept her back ‘til cobblestone gave way to wood that thumped with footfalls, the roar of the marketplace but a murmuring in the distance as she plopped down with her back to a crate on an unattended loading dock.  Her legs sprawled comically as she yanked her mask off, her chest heaving with running, a pleased grin on her naughty face. 

The last light of the day glinted on her sweaty forehead as he took a seat next to her, removing his mask with a deep breath.  He spoke, irate.

_“Veyla, how could you do that!”_

Her smile faded as she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing.  “What do you mean _how?_ How could I _not?_ ”

Cole gritted his teeth, glaring back at her as he yelled.  He had never done this before.  “You _stole_ that man’s things, he’s trying to make a living, you can’t just – “

Her scornful scoff cut him off.  Her eyebrows twisted to compliment the sneer of her upper lip, an expression that stopped Cole dead in his tracks.  Her eyes, so passionate and furious, burned at him as she yelled to dwarf his scolding.  “ _I_ stole _his_ things?  You think those _animals_ are his _things?_ ”  She shoved him roughly.  “Those birds are _not_ his to sell!  They belong to Ghilan'nain, they belong in the sky!”

His voice was quiet and dark as he rose to his feet, mask in hand. His heart was wounded from her anger, but still he marveled at the romance of her Dalish ways.

“I should have never brought you here.  You don’t understand.”

She stormed to her feet and marched in front of him, shoving a little yellow feather in his face.  “No, Cole.  _You_ don’t understand.  It’s evil to profit from suffering.”

Cole pulled his face back, looking at the feather she held there.  “What’s this for?”

“It’s a reminder that I’m right.  And it’s…”  Her cheeks flushed as she looked at her feet.  “And it’s to remember tonight, and to thank you for bringing me here.  Even with the bird-killer, I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

He took the feather in his gloved hand and twisted it, looking at it.  “Thanks…It’s pretty.  For a second, I thought it was a memento of you beating me at racing.”

She giggled quietly, and although they’d just been screaming at each other, he wanted to kiss her.  He turned away abruptly, sliding the feather into his pocket.  He would cherish the little thing forever. 

“I’m starving.”

 “Me, too!  I saw these little balls on sticks, they smelled _so_ good.” They both started pulling their masks back on as they padded over dockboards to the market. 


	30. Because of Me

It was much as he had pictured it. 

He could feel her arms twisted torturously behind her back, shoulders screaming with the strain.  A malicious grip at her scalp forced her cheek against the cold, hard ground.  There was nothing for him to see, because _she_ couldn’t see – she clenched her eyes shut tight as earth and jagged stone ground her face and the front of her body.  The smell of the earth, which meant a soul’s song to her people, to her meant this and only this.

It was not the first time, or the last.  She was in the thick of simple hell, too young and inexperienced in her talents to stop it.  She knew by now to tighten her jaw and keep her mouth shut tight, lest her assailant hook her cheek, lest she spit grit for days.   

Maybe before, it was all sobbing tears and begging.  Now, it was only the occasional stillborn yelp behind clenched teeth.

And in her heart, where he thought should dwell distress and terror, he found empathy.  _Empathy_ for the merciless butcher of her chastity whose violent assault threatened to break her nose in this recurring nightmare of her past.  Not the empathy a victim feels as an unfortunate effect of misguided self-deprecation and blame, but _true_ empathy, a forgiveness guided by divine understanding and impregnable fortitude.

The god witnessed this for but a moment, then spoke commanding in her mind.  “ _Da’len_ , no more nightmares.  Your dreams belong to _me_ now, not to him.”

And vision came, and age and strength, the pushing ground fell away.  Una found herself standing in a waist-high field of golden wheat, a gold that popped with vividness denied the waking life. Grass shimmered as it danced in a strong wind that swept the hair from her back, dragging her gauze shift against her body.  Clouds hung low and heavy in a sweeping autumn sky. She reached up to touch one, and she did, and it was soft and nothingness and quickly swept away.  Gilded trees in the distance shed their leaves to the unyielding gusts that howled in her ears; she heard each dry shuffling as the air dragged them away. 

She stood alone in this strange and beautiful place. In her head and in the ground at her feet there came a resonant whisper, powerful and knowing.  With the omnipotence of his voice, it occurred to her that this whole place _was_ him; she was standing on him, watching him race over her head, watching him dance shining in the wind.

“ _Ma vhenan’ara._ When I lay in secret watching firelight dance upon your golden hair beneath the stars, it always brings me here.”

She felt his sovereign presence at her back then, standing _so_ close, but not touching.  She thought to turn around, but felt his will deny her.  He stayed motionless behind her, and she was not afraid.

The softest touch, then, as he reached to pull a wisp of windswept hair from its path at her forehead, bidding that lock join the rest behind her.  Powerful arms slid around her ribs, easing her slender back against his chest.  His voice was there with her now, real, his lips a hair’s breadth from her ear as his whisper competed with the howling wind.

“Daughter of the Dales, mortal woman that I love.  How do you forgive him?”

She remembered, only then, that she could speak and had before.  Her tone held no bitterness, only simple truth. 

“It is not so different, Fen’Harel, from forgiving you.  Aaran spent a lifetime weak and frightened, and did only what he knew to do to gain his power back through me.  He hated himself more than I ever could, and that is tragedy to me.”

His true name on her lips in this, his world of dreams, birthed in his heart a bliss he’d never known.  His hand reached up to trace the outline of her ear as he watched her gentle eyes enjoying golden windy fantasy.  Never had a god in his own realm sounded so hesitant and pained.

“Is that why you dream of rape, _vhenan_ , when wicked Fen’Harel makes love to you?”

She felt his will bid her stay facing away and she denied it, turning in his embrace to look up at his eyes.  He smiled warmly down at her defiant strength, even in this world of his creation.  Her hand found his cheek, and his brilliant eyes slid closed.

“ _No,_ sweet gentle love, that is _not_ why.  No man has _ever_ brought me joyous pleasure as you do.  The pursuits of the flesh have always put these dreams in me, even when I please myself alone.  They do not trouble me unduly, I am used to it.”

His fingers wound into her windswept hair as he tucked his chin, his lips so soft and full whispering against her forehead. 

“You will never have that dream again.”

She brought her arms around the god, she squeezed him tight with love and answered simply, “Thank you.”

She smiled with invitation then as she gently parted from his arms, kneeling before laying back in the stalky crunching grass at his feet.  “Lay with me, _vhenan_ , and watch the beauties of your rushing sky with me.”

He joined her there with gladness, his movements flowing and serene.  The whipping, rustling wheat built them a haven just their size, clouds darting head to toe over their bodies.  She reached up with a giggle; still, she could touch the clouds.  They ran like rushing weightless rivers through her fingers. 

His heart delighted as he rolled onto his side, much more interested in her deep green eyes than in the magic sky.  She, however, would have both – she’d look at him smiling for a breath or two, just to return her grinning gaze up to his enchanting world of dreams. 

He found peace, for once, in bringing his lover this innocent joy instead of heartache.  He prayed that henceforth his love would give her only goodness such as this.  As he watched her playing, he found he hated himself less.  No – right now, he didn’t hate himself at all.

Her smile softened as she looked at him and spoke, her voice a thousand tinkling bells to him.  “Solas?  How will I know, now, whether in my dreams you are but a construct of my mind, or a true god come to visit me?”

He snuggled his nose against her own, squinting playfully into her eyes. 

“Unless I _die_ , _vhenan,_ or you tire of me and send me away, it will always be the latter.” 

A thoughtful quirking as his eyes left her own to consider the sky.  They then slid back to grin at her.  “Even if I die, in fact, I may still pull our dreams together.  I have grown _quite_ selfish, little love, and I _do_ covet you.”

Her gaze held his own then, a question on her brow.  “If _you_ die?  What about when _I_ die?  I _am_ mortal, Sola – ”

Hurt flooded his face, pupils jumped to pinpricks as the low-hanging sky above their heads shuddered dark.  His possessive hand clasped lightning fast over her mouth and he whispered at the back of his palm, shaking his head. “ _Don’t._ ”

A dearth of words gave rustling wheat some time to sing.  She closed her eyes and sweetly kissed his palm.  Ages rolled before his hand withdrew.  He pulled her close, craned his neck to stare down at her face, and she to stare up at his.  Their legs laced together o’er their susurrant and reedy bed.  The sky was once again as vibrant cerulean as the sea.

“Then Abelas spoke true. Gods can die, Mythal was killed.”

His eyes took on a distant look.

“Yes, my love, Mythal was butchered.  Gods can and have been killed, gods stronger and much more important than your loving wolf of dreams and misguided rebellion.  Not a day goes by that my heart forgets its weeping for her, for all of my mistakes.” 

A sad and happy little smile dimpled the corner of his mouth as he gingerly kissed her forehead.  “In loving you, _vhenan,_ I sometimes forget it all, as I never could before.  Even if you shunned me now, my heart would always owe you debt for the respite of your captivating company.”

She returned his kiss, pecking at his sharp cleft chin.  She watched his face adrift in a lonely place full of suffering.  Her fingers came to rub with soothing pressure at the clenching muscle of his jaw.  With her touch his bright eyes found her again, almost _surprised_ to see her there, so absorbed had he been in sadness.

She spoke.  “Tell me.”

The wind, already quite a gust, kicked up with a whine as he stared at her in ambivalent silence, an expression of disbelief, a glimmering of longing. 

She brought herself up on an elbow in response to his denial, scooting in the rustling grass to bring her head above his own.  He watched her as she lay back down and pulled his cheek against her breast protectively, her slender leg curling over and behind his back, enshrining him in love.

She spoke once again, her lips atop his head.  “I love and care for you more deeply than for all of Thedas.  Tell me.”

She felt him tense against her breast and body, his fingers curling in her hair at her back.  He whispered in response, as if any person or thing existed that could hear him here.

“ _Emma lath._ In all this time, I have never given words to it.  It is all dark and horrible.”

“Solas, I would know the troubles that you lug like anchors ‘round your ankles.  I caught glimpses and would have the rest.  Trust your heart to me, and speak.”  A kiss on his sweet head and the god melted in her arms, smooching her soft breast through linen with a sigh of gratitude.  She felt him taking a long breath.

“Those nights you stayed up reading, the strength you gained in only weeks.  Imagine, _emma lath,_ an _eternity_ in which to learn and grow in strength, in a world where magic is as natural as breathing.

We were, all of us, self-made; by virtue of our sovereignty, we owed The People nothing.  Our allegiances – with The People, with each other – they were fickle and self-serving.  The politics, the games you witnessed in Halamshiral…they _pale_ in comparison to the scope and ambition of the sports my brethren played with doting legions of immortal lives. 

Some of my brothers had a price, and The People bartered ‘gainst high stakes for their aid in good or wicked aims. 

Others of us had our idealistic morals, desires to have the world a certain way, and we would work with all our might to shape the course of hist’ry for the sake of being just.  For us, Mythal was like a mother.

Others still were hungry for control.  Your people know those gods as The Forgotten Ones, my love.  They would subjugate The People to unwitting servitude with trickery, nursemaids feeding poison to a suckling army of prideful Elvhen demigods too blinded by a lust for power to see themselves for tools.

We each kept to our own, save a few of us who shared certain fondnesses, thriving in a steadfast truce that held for untold time.  That truce broke when The Forgotten Ones came for us. 

They came because of me.

I could not tell you in great detail how The Forgotten Ones snuck slavery into the realm of accepted practice, for such had not always been the case in Elvhenan.  It slipped in like a parasite, and suddenly was there, and none, even the gods, would beg the question “Why?”.

I was young, and it was in my nature to fight for what I felt was just.  I was the only soul in Elvhenan who could not abide the thought of slavery.  _Mmm_.  Save those who suffered in bondage, of course, but what are they to history’s memory of a civilization’s will?

One day, when a sickening offense I could not tolerate was visited upon a woman I loved, I decided I would put a stop to all of it.

Mythal herself, when I brought my mind to her, laughed and called me crazy.  Things were different then.  Today, slavery in Thedas is an abhorrent and polarizing thing. _Surely_ , history remarks, the wise and peaceful Elves of old would have no need of it.  But I say to you, though they lived forever and had no real _need_ of slaves, slaves they had.  By the time I’d had my fill of tolerating it, ownership of lives was cherished as a birthright. 

I _knew_.  I knew that The Forgotten Ones _somehow_ planted the corrupting seeds of slavery in the hearts of the Elvhen.  It is easy for an elf to be blind to his own exploitation when he holds his heel on a throat more lowly than his own.  Slavery in Elvhenan was _everything_ to The Forgotten Ones.  Without it, they stood to lose their sway over the powerful; their demigods may raise their heads to question the true meaning of control.  I told this to Mythal, and though she hesitated for fear of upsetting the balances between us all, she was moved.

My tongue, in its lust for justice, started a grisly war that would change the very world in ways I could not _hope_ to understand.  Naïve and righteous in my youth, I told myself I knew the cost, for I had seen countless wars before.  But in my misguided quest for justice and victory, I got my brothers _far_ too much involved.

My tired hands, and only mine, removed vallaslin from the seemingly infinite faces of the Elvhen underclass.  The souls I’d freed fought alongside shining gods in bloody revolution.

My exquisite sister Andruil, likewise moved to help my cause, loosed the shaft that slew the King of Arlathan. There was no precedent for this.  Though we walked among them, their quarrels had _always_ been their own.  We may ply tricks of aid in exchange for this or that, but standing on the battlefield?  It was all but _un_ _heard of._

The Forgotten Ones were slow to move, so dumbfounded were they at my stupidity.  They boasted a surging force with heads that numbered more than half of Elvhenan. They slew my lovely sister first, trussed and butchered her as one might a fleeting deer, her innards discarded offal trampled in the dirt. 

_Because of me._

And then they slew the All-Mother.

I still remember my last argument with Mythal – we always argued, she and I, and she was always right.  Mythal was, as you imagine, the nearest to divine of all of us.  In her unfathomable wisdom, she sought to bring me comfort.

Mythal tried to help me see the downfall of Elvhenan as inevitable, for nothing lasts forever.  She wanted me to stop blaming myself for my sister’s murder, to let the war I’d started run its course or peter out, to back away and leave, or to continue if I pleased, but stop my foolish agonizing over the inescapable nature of the universe.   **Ha!**  Such was the comfort she could offer me.

In my grief, I rejected her.  I called her useless, and I left.  Revenge burning in me like a cancer, I stormed through the night and murdered in cold blood a wicked god whose name you’ve never heard.

It is no design of bragging, _emma lath_ , when I say that I had strength in me the likes of which you’ve never seen.  Still, I was dwarfed to _wretchedness_ by the strength of the All-Mother. 

The Forgotten Ones, in their wrath at her for supporting _my_ cause, in their wrath at _me_ for butchering their kin, brought their army and slaughtered benevolent Mythal like a bleating lamb with broken legs.  They visited atrocities upon her battered corpse that I will never forget or forgive myself for.  I felt her murder in my soul, as I had felt my sister's, and I rushed to her side.

Abelas, the sentinel you met, he found her broken body.  It is only for my hair that he did not recognize my face, for no other being who ever lived has seen me mourn so desperately.

Raging days of fighting passed.  Our struggles reshaped the very _landscape,_ to this day I see the evidence of us in verdant valleys and jagged cliffs.  Magic that could conquer mortal armies in one blow tore craters in the earth, scorched trees for countless miles, killed bird and beast alike.  We wrought complete and total devastation, leaving nothing but blackness where once life had been.  Entire _rivers,_ Una, wider than the woods in which your clan now sleeps, dried and dead and gone forever.  Such was our dedication to destroying each other.

My Lessa’s was the last death I could stand.  It was a facile soldier, not a god, who killed my lover on the field.  I suffered an aspectral blow to the head that would have killed a lesser mage, and was out cold in the scorching soot.  I was feet from her, mere _feet_ away when the soldier’s blade found her breast and put my Lessa to the ground.

I rushed to end it then, flailing as if drowning.  A spell of my own making locked The Forgotten Ones and my brothers away; it was all I _knew_ to do, I had no _time_.  In my ancient life I had never _known_ it, Una, that feeling of not having _time_.  _Terrifying_.

In my denial and urgency to see the bloodbath cease, I swept up and locked away many of the Elvhen, most of them in power, hoping that would end the war and bring a peace to Elvhenan.  Still, The People played at butchery in confused chaos, new evils rose to take the place of those I’d locked away.  Even with the eluvians disabled in my haste, The People found new and creative ways to come together and kill each other.

With that colossal undertaking I was spent, and ghosted helpless in the shadows watching my world fall apart.  Mythal was right, it seemed.  What I had set to motion could not be undone.  It was clear to me, even when the war ended and Elvhen souls remained, that the world I loved and fought for was broken and gone.

Of the slaves I’d freed, those who survived were subjugated once again.  Their faces would not take the vallaslin in empty honor of The Forgotten Ones; because of me, they were slain like blighted cattle to the elf.

Our blood thinned with interbreeding then, you must believe that wars raged over _that_.  Deprived of Mythal’s grace and guidance in that trying time, _because of me,_ Elvhenan was lost.”

She heard all in respecting and awed silence, her hand cradling the back of his head.  He paused his speaking for a time, his breaths shallow and tight.  She felt his hot tears at her breast and clutched at him.  His godly voice was cracking with utter despair as he ranted without breathing through his weeping, shuddering like a child in her arms.

“Oh, _Una._ I have walked the Fade eternal, searching painful memories of those long fallen, trying to find some other truth or meaning in it all, some way to _forgive_ myself.  Watching o’er and o’er the ripples of my mistakes in the minds of countless lost, flesh crisped and dead or locked and gone, souls screaming at the _meaninglessness_ , their heavenly perfection damn’d and gone by _my_ touch. 

All my searching brings no absolution, I am left with no recourse but to hold myself to wholly blame for the downfall of a civilization that was keeping on and on like clockwork ‘til I raised my misguided flag for “justice”.  I have watched histories older and newer than me repeat themselves through the eyes of many, and can only see more clearly the _fault_ in _me_.  I can _never_ forgive myself, I feel a horrid devil to think that atonement is even mine to seek!

Here are my people frozen in time, and they are dead or locked away from me, and I have been too weak to bring them back.  If I could, and if I dared, they’d all of them _butcher_ me, and I, a fool deserving.  And because I love them, Una, I cannot bring my heart to know the truth; that most of them are _terrible_.  I would bring them back still, not because it’s _good_ , but because I can’t _forgive_ myself!

And here is the world now, and it is dark and dank with death and brutality, a shadow of itself because of me, and _still_ slavery survives.  Even _that_ , I failed to fix.  In all my time here I have denied your world reality, for I am sick at myself to see the state of it.  In my angst this world has shown me only my own failures reflected in the wicked hearts of men and shem-blooded elves alike.”

He pulled his face away from her bust then, his hands splayed over her ears as he clutched her head and wrenched their foreheads together, lips quivering as his bloodshot eyes pierced her soul with wonder.

“But now I find _you_ , _vhenan_ , and those who follow you.  To see Thedas rally for a common cause behind you, to see the light your presence brings the eyes of commoners.  You change the colors of your world for me, _vhenan_.  You make it real, you make me love it as I loved sparkling Elvhenan, you make me feel so _unalone_ , as I have not felt in wretching _ages._

And now I am beside myself with choosing.  Do I rebuild the world I ruin’d in my naïve youth, or do I forego redemption like a selfish cur to fight a new and losing battle at your side, bidding this diseased world stay and try to live through its foundering?

I suppose my decision is obvious to you, sweet daughter of the Dales, as I lay here pouring blackest tar from a dark immortal heart into your loving bosom.  I mean to do as Cole has guided me to do, in his innocent wisdom.  I mean to let them go. 

Forever, I will hate myself.  But, there is the loving of you…and though it fleets, my mortal dear, it is the life I choose.  When you die I’ll hold the memory of you, and walk as a ghost misunderstood upon soils that once sang with joy in my passing.  It will be a sad joy, but it will be enough for me.”

Compassion glowed in her as she cupped his clamping face, her voice a coo to soothe him.  She had not noticed that the howling winds of his dream were now a stillness, and it was night.  They beheld each other by the buttery light of a low-hanging moon, a mere arm’s length above them.

“ _Da’fen_ , you speak as though all evil in the hearts of elves and men sprang forth from your mistake – a mistake, it seems to me, you never _made_.  How can you spend eternity casting yourself as _wicked_ for bending every power at your disposal to the cause of setting people free?”

A laughing smile of sniffling tears, his expression lightening.  “ _Da’fen_.  Mythal used to call me that when she would scold me.”

“And scold you she should, Fen’Harel, for the suffering you put yourself through is unjustified and sad to see.  You are good beyond intentions, and that is the simple truth.  I am stupefied beyond explaining that in your age and wisdom you can’t see this.”  Her thumb wiped a tear from his slick cheek.  The yellow light above them cast his eyes in radiant green.  He said nothing, so she continued.

“You say you are beside yourself with choosing, _ma vhenan._   There is no reason that we can’t accomplish _both_ together.  The two of us, we could free your brethren, given time.  They will find new happiness here, as you have, and my people would be thrilled beyond imagining to love them.  The _Forgotten_ Ones, it seems to me, are better off a’rotting.”  She chuckled with a winking smile, patting his cheek as if to buck him up from having scraped his knee.

His eyes searched her face in awe and disbelief, his tears completely gone with the shock of her offer.  He almost asked her, “Do you **_mean_** it?”, but he could see that it was simple truth to her, as obvious as spreading jam on toast.

His chest heaved with breathing in elated panic, and he sat bolt upright.  She came, too, for still he held her head.  She was short enough, but he clocked his head on his own hollow and elastic moon, which bobbed up away from him.  He looked up in surprise and laughed with an unbridled and uproarious joy before abruptly pulling her into a celebratory kiss, fierce in his enthusiasm. 

She kissed him back while grinning ‘neath his lips, then broke the kiss to move away from him, touching her finger to his nose.  Her eyes danced to bring him joy, and he was so ecstatic she could barely bid him listen.

“There will be time eternal for celebration later, Fen’Harel.  We must wake – I have wasted too much of our time already, _ma vhenan_ , and we have _so much_ work to do.”

In that moment he was as a god again, his face serene and loving as his hand found her cheek.  “That you had lived then, my love.  I am so glad to have you now.

Wake up.”

And with a snap, her senses lost his sagging moon and knew her crumpled sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Karini for [this gorgeous gift!](http://i.imgur.com/u6QjPen.jpg) A lovely drawing of Solas and Una in the field of his dreams. :) Enjoy!


	31. Don't Hit Her Again

She hadn’t slept for long.  She woke at his bidding as the first rays of sun hit her balcony, the trilling of her little songbirds louder than usual, icy air creeping at her cheeks. She did not need to open her eyes to know the door was hanging open. 

She knew that all of Thedas was waiting for her to get up and moving.  Her body, for some reason, was uncharacteristically reluctant to rouse.  She became aware of the gratifying throbbing t’wixt her legs and remembered with a groggy chuckle, hugging at her cuddling lover’s warmth between the sheets. 

She felt the heat of his cheek on her breast, the happy sigh of his waking breath tickling her skin as he stretched against her, wiggling his toes.  He’d slept through the night with one arm draped across her body, his fingers curled over the top of her shoulder.  His inner thigh rested across the front of her legs beneath the comforter, his bottom leg a’tangled with her too, his smooth manhood hard with the morning against her hip.  They were an inseparably knotted pair, smelling of sex. It was _glorious_.

She savored the first of her countless mornings with him, knowing full well she should be jumping out of bed.  Her appreciative hand traced the lean outline of his biceps.  She pressed her lips to the scar on his forehead and kept them there, eyes sliding closed in devotion as she whispered her love against his skin.

He responded with delighted senseless murmuring, tempting her to linger with a roving, sloppy kiss as he ground himself against her with a throaty purr.  She indulged in his attentions, a heart that should be warring with duty bade her part her thighs as his feather-light touch ghosted down her stomach with intent.

She felt his every sinew freeze from action as he pulled out of the kiss with an unexpected wet _smack_ , his suddenly alert gaze directed at the stairs behind her head.  Whatever it was, Una remained oblivious.  His hand broke its promises, leaving the threshold of her womanhood to pull her fluffy blanket up over her breasts.  She tsked, annoyed.

Una turned her head o’er her bare shoulder, seeing nothing.  He spoke as he stared past her, his coaxing voice gravelly with sleep and deflated avidity.  

“ _Da’halla len,_ I have told you before, this old man can smell your sneaking.  Out you come, _ma da’lath_.”

And wide olive eyes came peeping from beneath her borrowed floppy hat as she crept up the stairs, an astonished expression on her impish face as she digested the state of Una’s chambers and their naked togetherness.  Solas gave a _hurk_ of alarmed surprise as Una boldly rose from bed, plucking her robe from the floor as she marched across the room, intent on scolding. 

The old wolf died inside as he watched his little halla calf’s unembarrassed eyes rush over Una’s loving bruises before the robe drew closed.  And then he heard her _giggle_ , and saw the girl grin ear to ear with gloating.  At _him_.  And now she was eyeing the sex-ravaged state of his upper body, looking gleeful with elation.  Speechless and paralyzed, he gaped at her whom he loved as a daughter.

_Mythal, save your wayward son.  These audacious Dalish women will **end** me._

Solas then bore witness to Dalish motherly wrath as Una snatched the girl up by the ear with force that made her yowl, dragging her stumbling body out the open balcony door into the chilly morning air.  He took the opportunity to rise from bed while eavesdropping, intent on acquiring breeches. His heart wrenched to hear the girl cry and whine.

A stinging _slap_ cut the air, and the young woman was abruptly silent.  His heart ached all the more, for he knew Veyla to be gentle.  He did not think his Una capable of striking a child.

“ _Enough_.  Do not try your tears with me, Veyla.  You are _not_ a child, and I am _not_ your doting Keeper.  Have you even _written_ to Deshanna, you absconding fool?” 

Silence. “I thought not.  Clan Lavellan subsists on dried meats as though t’were winter, hunters occupied with searching half of Thedas for your corpse!  Fingers will point at Keeper Fernin, and the fragile truce I seek to forge will founder!” 

Another _slap_. “ _Selfish! Childish! Stupid!”_

Then -

“Cole, _be **still**. _ This is not your business.”  

His voice was hard and cold.  _Brave_ , speaking to Una this way.  “Don’t hit her again.”

Elvhen eyebrows quirked as he turned to look outside, lacing pants that reeked of sex.  He had not expected Cole to spend the night on their balcony.  Half-dressed, the god crept close to see.

Una was clutching Veyla’s shirt, glaring into her face beneath Cole’s hat.  Solas only now noticed that the girl was dressed in the form-fitting vestments of a young Orlesian nobleman, black and gilded.  He was offended to see her wearing human clothes. The skintight outfit kept no secrets, and he saw that Una spoke the truth – Veyla, though short, was by no means a child.  He had never noticed, so paternal were his feelings. 

He then beheld Cole’s steely expression as he stayed Una’s striking hand, unafraid and poised protectively at Veyla’s side.  His outfit was identical to hers, his body long and lean, more than a head and shoulders her superior in height.

Then Solas had not been mistaken. His cherished gentle spirit gone _shemlen_ was in love with little Veyla, and they were neither of them children.  Consternation was the word.

Una jerked her hand from Cole without a glance, seething in Veyla’s face.  “How _dare_ you abuse Solas’ good will to come here after I _strictly_ forbade you.  Was I not reasonable?  Did I not _explain_ how _dangerous_ Skyhold is for you, that I love you and would not risk the harm that will come to you? Come _here!”_

She released Veyla’s shirt and grabbed her shoulders, spinning her, forcing her to look out at the horizon.  Una stood behind her, pointing out into the mountains. Cole stood by and watched them both, his every nerve on edge.

” _Any_ moment, terrors the likes of which you cannot _fathom_ may storm that crest.  Coming for all of us, coming for _me._ I _can’t_ protect you, Veyla, any more than I could protect the poor souls who died trusting me the last time demigods came hunting.” 

Una spun the girl and pulled her into a strong embrace, her anger ebbing.  Solas watched as Cole relaxed.  “Veyla, you _know_ you are my dearest treasure. I will _not_ lose you to this war.  I have no choice; I must send you away.”

Solas watched human emotions warring on Cole’s face.  He set his jaw, his brow knit tight, eyes striving to stay stern.  So complicated, so much pain.  This suffering humanity brought Solas no joy.

The tears in Veyla’s eyes were real now, and she was hugging Una tight.  The hugging women closed their eyes and burrowed against each other, Veyla sniffling.  “Miss Una, I just…I miss you _so much_ …If I was stronger, I could – I’m fast, I could – I could _help_ you!”

A soothing coo, and Una stroked her hair.  “ _Shh_.  I miss you too, every day, and I am so _proud_ of you.  This is not a question of your skill, my love, but my willingness to risk your safety.  I am sorry, d _a’len_.  I have to send you home.  I will give you ‘til tomorrow, though even that is frightening to me.”

Solas watched Cole storming past him, heading for the stairs.  He rushed, not with the artfulness of an assassin, but with the stumbling of a wounded heart running from the truth.

Veyla’s ears perked as she felt him leaving, her hug with Una lost its magic and her grip went soft.  She sounded distracted as she parted from their embrace.  “Miss Una, are you coming to breakfast?  I haven’t eaten in the mess yet, I was scared to go without you.”

Una’s eyes searched Veyla’s face and saw she was a hundred leagues away.  Realization dawned with a gentleness as she heard Cole close the door, saw Veyla’s feet go rushing.  “Yes, dear, we will both be there.”

The door again, and she was gone.  Una stood staring into her chambers, oblivious to her shivering cold, the sting of frozen stone on naked feet.  Solas was with her then, supportive arm around her back, easing her into her chambers and closing the balcony door. “ _Vhenan_ , you’ll catch your death of cold.”

She made no answer as he heated her bathwater and tossed in a handful of scented salts from a dish on the floor – this was new, she thought in passing, it must have been a gift.  He pulled her back against his chest and reached around to unfasten her robe.  His fingers were slow and reverent on the silken knot, a knot he hoped to best a hundred thousand times and more.

She looked absently out the window – the sun was done with rising, and it was time for breakfast.  Her head leaned back against him as her robe fell to her feet, and she closed her eyes to whisper.

“She has only been here for four days.”

His smooth voice rumbled against her.  “Six, _vhenan._ ”  He kissed her temple, his hand across her lower back guiding her into the bath.  His hands began to roam her body as she knelt in warm and fizzing citrus, healing bruises and scrapes from their passionate night.  Her eyes were transfixed on nothing, her voice laced with wonder.

“Still.  How has he come to love her in such a short time?  He surely can’t, _vhenan_ , he is hardly human yet.”

“ _Hmm.”_ A thoughtful kiss at the crook of her neck as he slid her hair aside, bidding her lay back for him to wash it.  She thrummed with appreciation at his gentle rhythmic kneading on her scalp, water lapping at her ears as he spoke.

“There is a way about you Dalish vixens, my luscious lady Lavellan.  My heart fell for each of you in turn the moment it beheld you, and can imagine Cole the same.  I think our eager spirit is more _shemlen_ than we know. I think he surely _can_ love her, and does.”

Her eyes slid open barely, puzzling at his words.  “Did I just hear you call our Cole a _shemlen_? Such language has not crossed your lips in months.”

Coming from her trance to love him, her fingers set to healing scratches she could reach as he rinsed her hair.  He pecked her sudsy forehead with a kiss, smiling down into her eyes.  “I am Elvhen, my pet.  To watch a human man loving my Dalish daughter slights my heart to bitterness, regardless of my love for him.”

“You sour old mutt, don’t be that way.Be _happy_ for our children!  If real, their love is beyond sweet to me.”

Her scolding fell on deaf ears.  She watched his face go distant and cross as he thought on it.  He was washing her hair with senseless repeating now, his mind wand’ring from the task with scowling.

She took advantage of his absent state and reached up to grab him, jerking with intent to send him spilling head-first into the bath.  He caught on and resisted, struggling against her as he braced his hip against the tub.  They both set to giggling as they wrestled.

“Blast it, _asha_ , let me go!  These are my only pants for breakfast, you _siren!”_ He yelled through his laughter, lurching forward to tickle at her naked tummy in a wicked ploy for victory.

She bested him then, for her stomach was not ticklish.  She snatched the waist of his trousers and yanked his flailing body into the tub with a splash that sent suds and water halfway ‘cross the room. 

He groaned and snarled playfully as he righted himself to sit facing her, making to kick at his giggling lover in irritation.  Assault forgotten at the pleasure of her yielding flesh, his foot slid ominously up between her thighs. His eyes burned at her as he grinned with intent most wicked, his deep and rumbling voice setting her nipples on edge with memories of the pleasures he mastered in her. Sultry and staring, his arms came to rest upon the edge of the tub.

“Treacherous woman, you’ve ruined my pants.  I will have a sopping walk of shame to the rotunda, and all of Skyhold is awake.  Your punishment will make you late for breakfast.”

An armored knock rang woody at her door, and she called out to request a moment’s time to right herself before answering.  She rose with noisy water running from her body, an unobtainable vision before him, and he groaned in covetous disgust as his head fell back against the tub.

“ _Ugh!_ How do you _live_ like this, _vhenan_? Does the Inquisitor not have more than five moments of privacy and peace?Who is it _now?”_

She pursed her lips, her cheeks burning with mischief as she moved to dry and dress in a hurry, eyeing him fiendishly from across the room.  She could not _wait_ for his response. 

No love was lost between the elven apostate and her ex-Templar Commander. Furthermore, it was no secret that she’d taken this _shemlen_ in her bed for a passing lark in Haven, before lovesick Fen’Harel started vying with guarded jealousy for her attention.  His pure blood was truly smitten to overlook such unsanctionable debauchery.

“That will be the Commander with my morning briefing.  Cole must have told him I’m awake.”

His shoulders rippled as he sat up, leveling an unamused glower at the door.

“ _Fenedhis._ ”


	32. Powerless to Save Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dragging the morning's events out over several short chapters here, because I'm pressed for time in these few days and would rather share in segments than withholding stuff until the whole thing is finished. Structure may suffer for it, but I accept that. I am an impatient person!

He was confused and frightened of himself for feelings he could not understand.  It _hurt_ , it hurt _so much_ , a screaming hole in his chest that threatened to consume his bones and leave him on the ground.  His throat ached like he’d been stabbed behind the windpipe.

To hurt like this was to be vulnerable, that much he knew.  He could not let them see.  He had to get away from her, away from _everyone_. Right now.  He did not miss his ability to apparate when he scaled the Skyhold walls with a pewter birdfeeder on his back last night.  He _dearly_ missed it now.

Though her movements flowed like silent quicksilver, he could sense her agony closing in behind him as he stalked rigidly through the Great Hall.  His jaw worked as his eyes shot daggers at nothing.  Dread and longing, here was her hand on his arm, soliciting his steps to cease.  Her soft and timid voice was pained near tears.  She _needed_ him.

He couldn’t.

“Cole, wait.  _Please_ wait.”

He jerked his arm away from her and carried on, saying nothing.  Persistent and confused, she took hold again.

“At least let me thank you for – “

A twisting yank sent a message of disdain as he rejected her touch and her gratitude.  His counterfeit steely glare began to shine with tears denied as he hissed through clenched teeth at the precious elfgirl rushing on his heels, clutching the brim of his hat on her head to pull it downwards in dismay.

“Go **_away_.**   I’m _busy_.  I’m already missing breakfast, and I have to get dressed.  I’ll be expected in the field.”

Abruptly she was in his path.  She shoved him roughly in the chest and made him stumble back.  _“JERK!”_

Her pain was poison in his heart, and in that moment Cole knew what it was to hate himself.  But he _had_ to get away from her.  Though he felt her desperate and begging gaze, he avoided looking at all costs.  In theory it should have been easy – after all, she was short. 

But it was _not_ easy.  He wanted to see her so badly it burned.  His heart began to panic, dam threatening to burst as he kept his chin up high, shoving her aside and surging forward. 

 _Oh,_ it hurt to shove her, it didn’t help at _all_ , he wished he hadn’t done it and he could not take it back.  He heard the yelping of her wounded heart, felt his hat hit him in the back as she slapped him with it before dropping it, heard her sink to her knees as he marched away with white knuckles at his sides, leaving her to cry alone.  Her plea echoed in his breaking soul as he stepped into the blinding morning sun, rushing down the stairs.

“I didn’t do _anything_ to you!”

And he heard her soul, the clearest and most faultless soul to ever cross his heart, lament its own apparent truth:  _Nobody wants me.  I was a fool to think he did.  I will always be alone._

With that, the young man shed his first tears.  He clenched his teeth so hard they may have cracked, a steady wheezing note of agony rattling in his throat as he trudged through endless sucking mud, in desperate need of sanctuary. His face began to tremble with the work of his restraint.

He passed Cullen dispatching orders near the threshold of the tavern.  Cole’s drowning mind set to clinging, something else to think about. 

It was _Una_ taking her away.  Maybe his heart would stop its thrashing if he punished _her_.  The Commander did not mope over unrequited love as much as he used to, but Cole knew his regrets over their past.

He barely parted his lips to speak, afraid to move his crumbling face.  He was shocked at how cold and sure his own voice sounded, for he did not feel cold or sure at all.

“She’s awake.” 

Two words sent Cullen barking commands and rushing in response. He would discover her new lover, all three of them would hurt for it. Surely that would show them? Surely it would help?

It didn’t help at all.

His ears were deaf to a sole occupant’s admonishment of his filthy boots as he stumbled dumbly up two flights of tavern stairs.  He plopped down on his only chair, the unopened crate of whiskey by his bedroll.  Still struggling to keep his body from falling apart, he stared numbly at his muddy footprints on the steps.  Still, the painful wheezing noise rattled cage bars in his throat.

He thought, out of nowhere: _These are the boots I wore the first time I chased her. I tracked mud then, too, and I was so confused._ Her laughing, shining smile flashed through his mind, her dimpled cheeks streaked with mud, the way her eyes held his and commanded him to play with her.  The way she howled and threw a silly fit the next evening when he stole it back, holding it above her reach to watch her screw her face and jump with giggles.

The cage bars bent, his heart gave out, and he began to choke with sobbing, shuddering whines.  He crumpled to the floor and curled up on his side, tucking his knees in towards his chest as he clutched his seizing throat, struggling helplessly to breathe.  His lungs felt punctured.  His ribs felt broken.  Tears burning in his eyes blurred his sight. 

He rolled over towards his bed in agony, and here were the little hat and mask he’d gifted her tangled in his blanket from her night spent sleeping there.  A remembered yellow feather burned then in his pocket, and his strangled whining sobs intensified when he was sure they couldn’t.  He clutched her hat over his nose and mouth, powerless to save himself.

It was like dying alone in the dark all over again.


	33. For the Good of Thedas

She moved with fluid rushing, the day impatient on her doorstep.  Scruffing fingers magicked long hair dry and soft – how sincerely Una admired women who controlled their wayward tresses with nothing but their iron wills. 

Neither of them spoke, a scarcity of words spawned from focus.  She heard soggy pants wringing o’er the tub at her back as she deftly girded her breasts and loins down to mid-thigh with firm-wound cotton wrapping gauze.  Weighty armored robes of burnt sienna draped to whisper at her ankles, and her fingers set to braiding tight and high.  This, she did by hand.

A noiseless burst of pressure in the air as Solas strummed the veil.  She leaned to investigate in the mirror whilst she worked her plait.  A quiet sound in her throat, impressed.  Where it had taken Una full minutes to reassemble a bedframe, he righted an entire room with less time and effort than one spends in blinking.   

Her quarters were pristine, a flowered shrine free from the wreckage of their libidinous destruction.  No broken shards of this or that, her bed was neatly made, the suds and splashes from their wrestling may as well have never been.  There he stood amidst it all with his hands at his back, his clothes dry and uncrumpled, his skin unscathed, his expression trademark placid-prim.

Eyes left the mirror as she turned to see him in reality, admiring his performance of self.  Though she could swear she knew him to the core and had watched him break in more than one direction, there he stood a mystery, unassailable and straight, a fixed point of wise composure.  She lingered staring for a beat or two too long, and wondered if she’d dreamed it all.

His barefoot strides across the room towards her set her tummy fluttering as she finished fastening her hair, fingers lingering to pat and check her tresses for secure.  His hands came up to meet behind her bare neck for a moment and then left her, never touching her.  She felt the anchor throb with saturation, felt her aura swell with a familiar and intimate honeyed glow. 

Her hand crept to her neck, her chin crept down to see.  His weightless tooth was there against her bosom, secured on thin and sparkling golden string.  She could see the white space on his chest where he’d snapped it from the bone around his neck.  He sounded disconnected and controlled, as he always used to.

“The filament is of my making, weightless and indestructible.  Consider this my last gift to you before the battle with Corypheus, Lady Lavellan.  It will continue to support you ‘til you see fit to remove it.  I advise you to wear it with discretion, as the sight of it may… _complicate_ your image.  Also, I regret the trinket does not match your warring outfit.”

A soft smile as she touched his face, free hand clutching at the thing and tucking it beneath her robe protectively.  “Solas, that you would give so of yourself means worlds to me.  _Ma’arl – ”_

His finger pressed at her soft lips to stop her speech, his cheek nuzzling in her hand for but a moment as he whispered with a flash of longing in his tranquil eyes.  “There will be time enough for loving when you’ve helped me fix my blunders, Inquisitor. We have indulged enough while war stands urgent at your door.  Thedas cannot wait another moment.”

A puffing sigh, she steeled herself with a nod, gave his cheek a loving squeeze before her hand fell to ghost with wand’ring ‘gainst his ass.   Her eyes narrowed like a starving, stalking cat as she peered up at him through golden lashes.

“As always, Fademancer, you are wise and right.  But if you wear these pants into the field today, no amount of fortitude will keep my mind on task.  All of Thedas will suffer for the litheness of your step.”

His serene gaze held her own, unconquerable, but he did not move away.  He stayed there, shoulders straight and wide above the height of her eyes, a reflective hum rumbling in his chest.  She knew it was designed to tease, and _oh,_ it worked.

“ _Mmm._ I see.  Then for the good of Thedas, I had better go and change.”

She made a flirty smirk her answer, stepping back to fold her arms beneath her breasts and nod again.

“Yes, I think you’d better.”

Without another moment’s hesitation Solas headed for her stairs, raising his voice with the tone of talking shop.  She was sure the patient Cullen heard him at the door.

“I cannot overemphasize the value of the final Elvhen artifact in our odds against Corypheus, Inquisitor.  I know your people have spent undue precious time investigating the Forbidden Oasis, but I assure you: The artifact is there, and it is essential.

Your thorough scouts leave but one area unchecked, for it is strictly inaccessible save by flight.  I urge you to consider questing there today.”

Donning leather armor the color of pale earthen clay, buckles tinkling as she finished dressing with her back to the stairs.  Her voice was all business, her body surged with energy and the will to see this war over and done.

“You _do_ realize that means bringing Morrigan, unless you’ve learned a spell to make us fly like pixies.”

“I take no pleasure in this truth, Inquisitor, but yes, I realize her presence will be necessary.”

“Fetch her for me, then. Advise my usual accompaniment to convene at the waypoint after breakfast.”

“As you wish.”

She took up her glimmering staff, listening to Solas taking his leave.  Ears pricked as she heard the guarded men greet each other at the threshold of her chambers.  It was clear from Cullen’s hardened tone that he had _not_ expected the knife-eared apostate to answer Una’s door.

“Commander.  Morning strategy, I take it?”

“Solas.  Early for you, isn’t it?  Yes, in light of her absence, the Inquisitor and I have much to discuss.”

“Ah.  So you surely must.  I apologize for keeping you waiting, I am just taking my leave – I will see you both at breakfast.  I fear I've made all of us late, apologies for your cold eggs.”

Una hadn’t noticed, but Solas kept the faintest ghost of her sucking kiss on the pale skin in the shadow of his carven jaw.  He took care to exit on the left, keeping in the sun to give his audience full view.  He knew from the incredulity that flashed ‘cross Cullen’s face the effectiveness of his wicked little jab.  _Chuckle_.  Shemlen and their microexpressions.


	34. Talking More Than Business

She suppressed a smirk as Solas made his smug apologies, wishing she could twist his nose and swat his ass for strutting. She smiled down on Cullen's ascent from the head of her stairs, waving a dismissive hand as Solas left. 

“I apologize as well, Commander, and thank you for waiting.  What news have you?”

Selfish guilt slugged her stomach when she saw his face; she rushed another question before he had the chance to answer.  As she spoke, she stepped back to allow him passage from the stairway, moving to fetch him a chair. 

“ _Gods_ , Commander, have you slept _at all?_ We’ve talked about this, you’re no good to the Inquisition when you’re dead on your feet.”

His voice was professional and very much exhausted. He accepted the chair, resting the clipboard he carried on his knee.

“Corypheus stirs, Inquisitor, and we do not know his mind.  Leliana’s people speak of rallying forces, Venatori legions tripling in size and strength across Ferelden and Orlais, taking no action.  We feared he may act while _you_ slept, and thus _we_ could not – none of us have, not for more than a few restless hours.”

She stood before him, her countenance growing dark with worry.  “Solas told me nothing of this."

"He does not know, Inquisitor - only the war counsel knows.  We were afraid to spread a panic, and we can see no clear course of action.  We have been waiting for you.  We would have broached it with your entourage today, but here you are."

She thought on his demeanor this morning, the way he'd stopped her love and urged her into focus.   _No, he knew.  Solas knew._ Her chin sank as she gritted her teeth.  

"I have failed all of you with my negligent mistake.  I hope I have not cost us everything.  We must move, and now.”

An armored hand came up to bid her wait, and Cullen rose from his chair. He hesitated.

“Permission to speak freely, Inquisitor?”

Her voice was curious.  “Of course, Commander.  I have told you before, such formality is not necessary.  I am not the Queen of Ferelden.  Do make it quick, as I have selfishly wasted enough of the Inquisition’s time.”

He nodded, and his voice became quiet. “Is it true, then, that you defied sleep with poison?  There are only rumors, Inquisitor, I – we have _all_ been worried.”  A look around the room, a chuckle as he shook his head. “The flowers are incredible.  I can’t recall which ones were mine.”

She saw the real question in his eyes, and she was moved.  “Thank you for the flowers, Cullen.  Yes, it is true – Solas tried to warn me, but caught me far too late.  I am afraid I overextended myself with racing ‘gainst the clock, and here we are now, all of us behind.  And it _is_ poison, Commander, make no mistake.”

Her caring hand came to rest beneath the billowing furs on his shoulder as she looked into his lion-coloured eyes with friendship and concern. 

“The nightmares still plague you, I take it.  Did the tea not help at all?”

A heavy sigh, he shook his head and brushed her hand away, not unkindly. 

“I do not mean to trouble you, Inquisitor.  And I do not mean to sound ungrateful. Yes, actually, the tea has helped a great deal, when there is time for sleep.  I thank you for that.”

The topic jogged a task to memory.  She accepted his dismissal of her hand with ease, walking to her desk and plucking a very different type of satin tea bag from the top drawer of her desk, _thwud_ the drawer back shut. She gestured to leave the room with him, to talk while walking to breakfast.

“Do not mention it, Cullen.  I am only sorry that I can’t do more to relieve your suffering.  A woman at your side would help, Commander, to give you love that I could never.  You should play chess with lovely young Mellina, the girl form Redcliffe Village who cleans my chambers.  She is brilliant and charming, and I believe she fancies you for handsome. Do you know of her?”

Blunt.  She always meant well, but she was _so_ blunt with truth, so personal and nosy.  He had forgotten what capricious hell it could be, talking more than business with Una.  Though he would always value her friendship, the crass nature which he once found alluring was now her ugliest flaw. 

He watched her twiddle the tea bag in her fingers as he followed her quick bare feet down the steps.  Cullen had seen her drink this tea at breakfast on occasion a lifetime ago, always in the same little satchel, always after passing a lonely night on his convenient, willing cock.  That she now drank abortifacients to purge a different man from her womb did him less pain than he imagined it would.  In fact, though the hickey had surprised him, he felt no jealousy at all.

He did, however, find her matchmaking particularly offensive and irksome.  How could Una know that he’d been stealing glances at black-haired Mellina for months? His armored steps rang through the Great Hall.

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, I would talk business.”

She was unoffended, and seemingly oblivious to how she pricked at him.  “By all means, Commander.  What else have you for me?”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak – and lo, here came her lively little henhouse of chambermaids around the corner, Leithara in the lead.  Squeals of glee to see the Inquisitor awake, openly affectionate embraces all around her.  She broke hugs and squeezed arms with her fingers as she passed through the little throng, calling over her shoulder as she fell back in with the Commander.

“My saintly saviors, you all took such good care of me – I cannot linger, but I thank you, as I always thank you.  You’ll find my quarters aren’t in need of much today.  Ah, Mellina?”

Cullen’s heart lurched with dread as they kept walking, he did not turn to look.  _Please, Maker, not today._ A questioning sound from Mellina’s throat.

“I’ll take that steak medium rare, please.”

A cry of delight!  “That’s _right_ you will!” 

Mellina set to showy hooting and whooping, clapping her hands as she laughed.  She elbowed Lavi in the ribs, joshing all the way up the stairs.  Cullen, nonplussed, was relieved to stay out of…whatever _that_ just was.

Una chuckled as she turned to face forward with Cullen.  Her voice was suddenly grave once more. 

“I apologize, Commander.  The camaraderie keeps spirits up; I will not interrupt you again.”

_One minute she’s all guts and glory about finishing the war, the next she’s snorting over some joke.  Sometimes I wonder if we made the right choice._

“The First Enchanter of Orlais extends her offer of aid once again.  Josephine asked me to petition you with the benefits of an alliance from a tactical perspective.”

Vexation washed her countenance.  They could hear the clamor of the mess, their steps now took them in and out of shafted sunlight.

“Do not waste your time, Commander, for my answer still remains.  I _have_ Orlais for us. I have the Empress’s apostate lap dog, I have Briala puppeting her Imperial lover.  I do not need that baneful woman’s help.”

Cullen kept his scornful sigh to himself, tucked his clipboard under his arm. His voice came curt.

“Very well. Then that is all.”

She sensed his scorn, and she would not abide it.  Silence for a moment, and she lingered with her hand upon the door to the mess.  She turned to look at him, staff shimmering on her back, tea bag in hand, green eyes wild and fierce.

“Cullen. Listen to me.  Think me a whore, think me stubborn, think my carelessness with time a damning shame. Doubt my leadership, Commander, and maybe rightly so. I do not care, you may be right or may be not, and still I am your friend.    

With all my faults, you and your people put me here for the virtue of one simple truth – that I will stop at _nothing_ to see this thing done.  If you doubt that, Commander, then I pity you for standing by my side.  I say again, we do **not** need her.  If we did, I would gladly tongue a dozen rubies up her arse for Thedas.  I need you to believe me.”

Armored fingers rose to gently press the corners of his tired eyes, and he muttered with exhausted penance.

“I apologize, Inquisitor.  It has been a long week without you, and I beg your forgiveness.  Of course, I believe you.”

A smile then, and her hand found his shoulder once more, that tea between her knuckles.  She spoke to him unrushed, a legion of anticipating comrades bustling just behind the door.  He did not brush her hand away. 

“You are endlessly patient with me, Commander, and I would be nothing without you.  You are my right arm, and I am eternally grateful.

I wish you did not suffer so.  I am glad the tea helps a little, and wish I could do more.  I will keep a sharp eye for a permanent solution to the hells that plague you, my friend.”

He had forgotten just how compassionate she could be.  _Now_ his heart was growing restless and uncomfortable. 

“You are too kind, Inquisitor.  I don’t mean to distract you from your duties.”

A flustered sigh, one hand dropped from the door.  The other kept his shoulder. 

“You do not know and I forgive you, but that phrase, ‘distract you from your duties,’ it irritates me a _great_ deal.  Damn near everyone in this castle has said that to me, from my chambermaids to my Fademancer, from my kitchen staff to my Commander at Arms. 

The love I bear others is the lifeblood of my will to fight Corypheus and win.  _Please_ , Cullen, do not deny me the right to care for my cherished family, for you are all beloved and precious to me.”

Cullen sounded awed and touched, as he felt.  “Of course, Inquisitor.  I apologize, and I thank you for your kindness.”

Her voice smiled with her.  “And I thank _you_ for your continued dedication and unwavering loyalty, Commander.  Speaking of: I am full aware of how your burdens doubled in my absence, and I insist you take the day to rest.”

He began to speak in protest – she cut him off, her voice firm.

“I will hear no argument.  If things are bad as you say, it is _imperative_ you see your family now.  When we adjourn from breakfast, you will take the day to visit them at home and stay for dinner.  Choose a wine from our cellars, something expensive, as my gift to them in gratitude for making you the man you are. 

If Corypheus comes killing between now and suppertime, I will send for you.  Now, let us eat our quick and chilly breakfasts.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

No, she could not leave well enough alone.  She elbowed his ribs, chuckling.  “Be sure to tell your sister that you slept with me before I became famous, Cullen.  She’ll be so tickled, she’ll bake you a pie!”

He blanched, his eyes beseeched the ceiling before he stepped into the mess behind her.   _Solas.  Though we are not close, I pity you as a brother.  This woman is **insufferable.**_  

Tankards and silverware banged on tables, songbirds leagues away took flight in dismay, and all of Skyhold boomed with enthusiastic cheering at the sight of their Inquisitor. 


	35. I Can't, I Can't, I Can't

_You don’t have time for this, you don’t have time.  Get up, you have to help._

He passed the hour of breakfast squirming on the floor, his heart nowhere near finished with its suffering.  Still, he exhibited the unsurpassed self-control of an assassin in rising to his feet.  Numb, sniffling, clenching his teeth, he kicked his boots off and stripped bare in the cold before his window, reaching for his smallclothes as he looked down on the blonde hair of his human body glowing in the sunlight. He forgot his woes for but a moment, reflecting on the contrast of his Elvhen friend and tutor gleaming hairless ‘neath the moon.  He heard one of Una’s song birds getting a late start.

That was when the Quiet hit him.

He stumbled naked to his window and slammed it open, his wearied heart racing with a new fear as he leaned his upper body out into the stinging wind, eyes desperate and rushing on the forms of folk below.  He could see the soldiers walking from the mess, he could hear their distant laughter stories down.  He could see Cassandra there, carrying a bottle of wine as she spoke to Cullen.  His grip tightened on the windowsill as he strained to pick up _something_ , anything. 

Silence.  Their souls were closed to him, no longer his to help.  He stood nude and balking at the loss, one gasp of disbelief upon another as his mouth hung open in the wind, too shocked to cry.  He had no god to pray to.

 _“Wh - … what **is**_ _this?_ What have I _done?”_

He looked down at his quaking hands, shook his head in fierce denial, rushed with urgency to dress.  He whispered to himself to fill the silence.  His trembling grasp could hardly buckle up his boots.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.  It’s just – the crying, all the crying made your ears tired, Cole, it’s just – _ouch!”_

He pinched his finger t’wixt sheath and hilt before he donned his gloves, and though it was not overly painful, that he felt it so much startled him.  He strove to best his growing panic as he finished dressing, stumbling muttering down the stairs. 

“It’s nothing, this is what you wanted – _Oh, how will I fight? How will I fight?_ I’ll just-…I’ll just do it, I’ll just do it. I can do it.  Human men fight every day, and this is what I wanted.”

His tongue could not convince the rest of him, and he murmured urgently to fill the screaming void of Quiet.  _“All this, and she’s leaving, and she hates me.  She’ll be gone when I get back.  I can’t do this; I can’t be this anymore, I can’t, I can’t, **I can’t**. I don’t want it, I don’t want it.  I take it back, **I take it back.** ”_

He could not remember walking to the waystone, but suddenly, here he was taking his last steps to wait for leaving. He stilled his stuttering lips to guard his fears for battle.  As he approached, there was only Varric.  Cole said nothing.

Varric’s hand came grasping on Cole’s forearm.  Though Cole made every effort to steel himself, Varric knew something was wrong.  Cole did not yet understand how a close friend could know your trouble just by looking, without an ear against your soul.

“Kid.  You missed breakfast. What’s going on?”  An uncharacteristic voice, serious with concern.  No jibes, no teasing, no making light of heavy hearts.  Cole stammered as he shifted on his feet and made to pull his arm away – Varric would not have it, his gloved hand held him fast.  Cole, helpless, closed his eyes to hide from the truth with a sharp breath.  He thought his voice rang with conviction.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.  I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.  You need to eat something, kid, and you need to tell me what’s going on in that weird head of yours, or I’ll tell Goldy to pull you when she gets here.”

He muttered, his lips hardly parting.  He could hear the others coming, sort of.  “I’ll throw up again if I eat now, I had something bad in Belle Marché last night.  I feel a little sick, but I’m okay.  I can help.”

“You went _back_ to Belle Marché last night?  Did you sleep?”

More shuffling feet, he could feel his half-truths working.  He straightened his shoulders, cracked his neck, sighed the sigh of one depressed.  “I slept a little.”

Varric’s hand dropped, skepticism lingering on his face.  “Why in blazing hell did you go back?”

Cole swallowed hard, his pained eyes opening to look at the ceiling as he tilted back his head.  “Ah…”

And then Varric saw her sneaking face, and the rest was clear as crystal.


	36. They Used To, Little One

Glowing fingertips rose to brush away his last loving bruise as Fen’Harel made his way to the frescoed rotunda.  His mind, as usual, was occupied with many things: The baser triumph of his just-now conquest,  _gods_ , her sugared lips and beckoning caress. The somber dreaded secrets he plucked from spying on Leliana’s whispered conferences to augment the foreboding feeling stirring in the soil beneath his feet these past few days. The whereabouts of gentle scolded Veyla. The importance of that artifact whistling high up on some cliff face in the wastelands of the desert, where he would be a’questing in less than an hour’s time.  He wondered also at himself, at the short-sightedness of his own thoughts.  The fierce god worried love had made him weak and soft.

He saw Cole’s once coveted hat languishing and stomped outside his room, and rowdy Veyla skidded to the forefront of his mind. 

He stepped into his quarters and closed the door behind, eyes drifting to the charming pixie-headed shadow spilling in yellow candlelight from atop his scaffolding.  Here she was, idly pushing a paintbrush back and forth between her fingers, a slow and hollow rolling sound across a beam of sanded wood. 

She did not say a word to him.  A sigh through his nose as he folded his arms at his chest, watching her shadow with worried thoughtfulness.  He listened; no, she was not crying.  He was surprised and proud of her, but also, naturally, concerned.  Though he had a world to save, he would not leave his little halla calf to mope.

“Veyla.  Did you not wish to see the mess this morning?”

Nothing. Hollow wooden rolling.

He made his mind up, then, and walked in one flowing circle around the room.  He plucked up his cleanest drop cloth, the one that served to guard the antique sofa Leithara placed in his quarters.  He shook dusty canvas clean with snapping precision, folded it to drape heavy over his shoulder. 

A few more paces then, a fluid stooping reach beneath the matching covered arm chair – a funny place to hide it, but the wolf in Fen’Harel had always stashed his choicest treats.  He extracted an exquisite Orlesian box, the kind for carting pastries.

The painter in him was a master at mounting scaffolding one-handed. A loose grip up the rail as he balanced box in hand, the arches of his feet carrying him effortlessly aloft with quiet  _plonks_  on slender wooden rungs.  She ignored his graceful ascent with all her might, keeping her back to the ladder, rolling that paintbrush with a face as steadfast placid as his had ever been.

She began to fight a smile when the drop cloth came around her body, wrapping in her front. She  _lost_  that fight when he presented her with an open box from behind that set her sweet face grinning. 

She tilted her head as she stared at the frilly little cake, though she did not understand just what it was.  She barely recognized the strawberries sliced and fanning on the top of the dainty thing, but the rest of it – the chocolate curls, the golden painted scrawls of icing, the delicious smell, sweeter than any apple pie – opened her curious heart and bade her speak with marveling wonder.

“Is it good?”

He smiled with silent triumph as he replaced the paintbrush with the box, stepping to sink cross-legged in front of her.  He too looked upon the cake, knowing appreciation on his face.  “ _Oh,_  yes.  I have tried every bakery in Val Royeaux.  Madrie’s is the very best.”

“What  _is_  it?”  Her curious hand came reaching.  The sight of her elegant young fingers, carefree in their griminess, warmed his heart.  He could not help but notice the watery purple paint on her knuckles.

“It’s your birthday cake,  _da’asha_.  Try it.”

“My  _wha?_ ”  Her puzzled eyes found him, and he could see she had been crying.  He searched her face as he answered her, smiling with love.

“Your birthday cake,  _ma da’lath_.  Humans celebrate the day of their birth every year until they die.  The dwarves and City Elves observe this holiday as well.  Your loved ones honor you, they shower you with gifts, you eat too much and stay up far too late.  Did you – “ He craned his neck to view the wall behind her shoulder, his face contorted, mock aghast with comedy.  “Did you  _paint on my wall,_  you naughty little halla?”

She giggled and scooted o’er a smidge to put herself between his prying eyes and her scribbling artwork, snatching up the cake and sticking out her tongue at him before she looked back down at her new treasure.  Watching her delight, he could not help but chuckle and tousle her hair. 

“But Solas, I’m  _Dalish_.   **Real**  elves don’t have ‘birthdays’.”

A gentle frown, he shook his head and looked at her.  His voice was soft and quiet, his hand stayed in her hair.  “They used to, little one.”

Suspicion in her olive eyes, she gave a squint and tilted her head away from him, eyeing him long-ways.  “Oh  _yeah?_ When’s yours?”

He recited quite regally, his eyebrows up as he narrowed his eyes and smiled at her.  “The first full moon of summer, if you please.  Now that I have told you it is your solemn duty to remember, lest you injure my feelings.”

She took him far too seriously then, her eyes going piggledy with worry.  “So if I forget, that’s it? You won’t like me anymore?”

He groaned and laughed at her, taking his hand from her hair and patting her cheek before his wrist came to rest on his folded knee.  Ever the teacher, Solas had more patience than most for her trademark incessant questioning.  And here it came.

“Veyla, I will always love you.  You’ll just need to bake me a bigger cake if you forget.”

“If I can’t make it, can I buy it?”

“Yes.  I bought this one.  If you cannot cook, you are not alone.”

“Does Miss Una have a birthday?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Why not? Why do I have one, and she doesn’t?”

“Because today I find you stewing in my scaffolding after being yelled at by the most formidable elfwoman in all of Thedas, your new friend’s hat stomped and kicked across the dirty floor outside, and yet your face is dry of tears.  Also, you do not chafe insecure at my affectionate diminutives the way you used to.  I have decided you to be a woman true as of today, and I intend to mark it.  As for Una, I have not yet decided what her birthday should be.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

“Oh,  _fenedh –_ Will you hush and eat your cake?  Have you ever even  _tasted_   **chocolate**  before?”

“Does this make you my father?”

Ping-ponging abruptly stopped.  Her eyes smoldered with intensity most serious, the cake forgotten in her hands.  He saw her loneliness burning so brightly, he was moved to set the cake aside from her grasp and pull her into an embrace, squeezing at her through heavy linen cloth. 

“Veyla, I am sure your father loved you very much, and I would not presume to take his place.  I have never been a father, so I hesitate to speak of it – but yes, I think I love you as a father would his daughter.  I would do anything to keep your heart from harm.”

She burrowed against him with honest need of his love, and he gave it gladly, his pressing duties forgotten as he comforted the child-hearted young woman.  A pleading whisper ran across his shoulder.   _“Solas, please.  Don’t let her send me back.”_

He closed his eyes and gave a quiet sigh, stroking her mousy hair.  “Veyla.  You know I can’t do that.  We both want you safe, and she is right – Skyhold, while fortified, is by no means beyond danger.  You are safer in the Free Marches with your people.”

He could hear her fighting against tears, her speech quiet and tight with urgency.   _“But I’ll never see you again.”_

His hand stilled on her head.  “Oh,  _really._ Is that what you think?”

A nod.

“I see.  Well, my lady, you are very wrong.  When the war is over – and it  _will_ end, child, it could end in months or weeks, tomorrow for all we know – If I survive, I will always visit you.  I imagine Una will, as well.”

A murmuring, she squeezed at him enough to crack his ribs in desperation.  “Of course you’ll  _live,_  and I don’t want you to  _visit_.  I want you to  _stay.”_

His eyes took on a far-off look as he considered her scribbly purple halla on the wall.  His long-drawn silence farmed dread in her yearning heart, bade her squeeze him even tighter, whispering  _please._  

Finally, he spoke.  “If it means that much to you, young Veyla, I will stay.”

Her ears perked.  Her cheek parted from his chest to stare up at him in earnest hope.  “You will?”

“Yes, I will.  When the war is over, I will build a sprawling treehouse in the Free Marches just for you.  I may roam at night, but I will stay with you and teach you all I know.  I will not stay forever, little one, but I will stay until your gentle heart no longer needs me.”

“You promise?”

A warm smile as he tucked his chin to look at her.  “Of course I promise.  Happy Birthday.”

“Una too?”

“Come now. You know as well as I, I cannot promise someone else’s life to you.”

She rose to squeeze him ‘round his neck, believing with her very soul.  He smiled as she smushed his face against her tattered little jerkin.  Her Orlesian clothes were gone.   _“Thank you.”_

“You are very welcome, Veyla.  Now.   ** _Eat your cake,_**  or I will steal and eat it for myself.”

Her cheek nuzzled at his chest for but a moment, and it was all she needed.  She snatched the cake back up and sat with her slender bottom on his thigh.  “How do I eat it without a fork?”

He sighed and chuckled, shaking his head in amazement.  “You proclaim your Dalishness to every leaf that passes on the wind, and now you want a  _fork_  for your fancy Orlesian birthday cake.”  He gave her back a pat, moving to rise. “Let me up, silly thing. I need to change.”

She set her back against the wall as he moved to go down the ladder, artlessly pinching at yielding icing.  She licked her messy fingers, and her eyes sparkled like diamonds as an expression of elation took her face.  He was glad to catch a glimpse in his descent.

“Your necklace is missing a tooth, what happened?”

Again, the questions.  He’d hoped reverence for the treat would buy a moment’s peace, but still came her ceaseless interrogations half-formed ‘round mouthfuls of fluffy cake.

“A very hungry hawk swooped down and plucked it from my chest.”

A grunt of understanding and acceptance.  He rolled his eyes as he disrobed beneath the scaffolding, in a rush to dress for battle.  He could hear the mess emptying; he had never once been late in meeting the away team.  Buckles clinking, cords whispering in cinching, leather squeaking with delight at its use.  He always dressed here, a modicum of privacy since his quarters lacked a ceiling.  He could feel her eyes on his back.

“Wow!! Your outfit is so wonderful!  You look… _strong_. And really  _intimidating._   Like Miss Una, but bigger. I  _love_  it!!!”

A light and patient sigh as he stooped to wrap protective leather bracings from midfoot to beneath his knee.  He did not look up at her.  “It is rude to watch me dress, Veyla, unless you mean to take me for your lover.  Is  _that_  what this has been about, now?  Do you fancy the old man?”

A giggle at the teasing, and she did not look away.  He glanced up at her prying impish face – she was still glowing with the wolfing of her cake, a smudge of chocolate icing on the corner of her grinning mouth.  “You ate that whole thing already? Mythal have mercy on the bake shop when your nimble hands come plucking.”

She ignored him, naturally.  “Did you watch Miss Una dress this morning?”

Blue eyes beseeched the ceiling as he tied off his wrappings, starting on the other leg.  Passes of flat leather cord were deft and swift, the air whispered with his work.  “ _Tch._ What have I told you about questions like this,  _da’lath?_ I have told you no a hundred times before.  Why are you so preoccupied o’er the nature of my friendship with the Inquisitor?”

 _“Because._   It’s  _romantic,_  and I want you to be her new husband, because I  _like_  you, and Aaran is a  **jerk**  like  **Cole.**    _So,_ are you together?  Are you going to stop fighting with each other?”

Solas heard her stab at Cole, and it did not please him as he thought it should.  He thought it best to let that be – he could feel her heart was raw.  He remembered once again that she was not a child.  His lips drew tight as he tied off his second wrapping.  “Come down here.”

She obeyed with unflagging haste, her face excited and curious.  He was startled at her speed.  His voice was low and quiet as he snatched up his staff from its bracket on the wall beneath the scaffolding, a chilly twisted metal black as darkest night that crackled vibrant green upon his touch.  In that moment, Solas was more wholly honest with her than he had ever been with anyone.  She could barely hear his words, so quiet was he, so distracted was she by his brilliance. His thumb brushed icing from her mouth as he spoke.

“ _Yes,_ child, for now I count myself quite fortunate to be your Una’s lover.  It is of gravest importance that you keep our romance secret, Veyla.  You must not tell a soul what you saw this morning, you would endanger her reputation.  She mustn’t be seen loving the likes of me, not until the war is over, and even then, if she should keep my love, her fate may render openness impossible.  We will not speak of this again.  Do you understand?”

She squealed with excitement for but a moment before his eyes filled her sails with buckshot.  “Not.  A.  Word.”

Her face grew serious, and she nodded.

“Good.  Now, listen to me.  The five of us will not be back ‘til midday tomorrow.  When we return, I expect it will be straight back to Clan Lavellan with you.  Say your goodbyes today, for while you may see  _me_  again, those who are dear to you in Skyhold will likely move on.”

“Who’s ‘the five of us’?”

“The Inquisitor, an Imperial witch named Morrigan – have you met her?”

A shaking of her head, her eyes dazzled as though she were about to witness gods dancing in the hall.

“Ah, then you should steal a peek, for she is quite a sight.  And then there will be Varric, Cole, and me.”

Scorn wiped reverie from her eyes as she sneered.   _“Hmph._ What’s  _he_  good for? You should take me instead of that bumbling  _shemlen_ , I’m faster.”

He could hear Una briefing the others in the hall, he glanced over his shoulder with his hand upon the closed door.  His heart was torn.  Though he imagined he would be relieved to hear his little halla calf spurning Cole, here he stood in the thick of it, and he felt unjust in saying nothing.  He tsked himself with disdain as he spoke in a rush, his eyes finding her and snapping her from seething.

“Cole fights as a shapeless phantom in the sun or dead of night, Veyla, like no human I have ever seen.  His skill has saved more lives than man can measure.  If you could see him flowing like a breeze across the battlefield, taking lives with alacritous mercy, you would not scorn him useless.  I am certain Andruil herself would find awe in his liquid grace.  All of us are safer for his protective presence.”

Admonished eyes sank down to her toes, voice muttering.  “Well, he’s  _still_  a jerk.”

Solas gave a gentle smile.  “That I cannot speak to, though I have always found Cole compassionate and gentle to a fault.  Now,  _da’len_ , I have to go.”

She was on him then, hugging him through layers of shimmering protective vestments that were chill against her face.  “I love you. Good luck.”

He stooped and hugged her back with a rustling of robes, his staff blazing with force above her head.  He kissed her temple, fingers tickling at her ribs to summon up a giggle as he squeezed her tight.  “I love you too, little halla calf.  Thank you for the luck.  Keep your dirty little hooves off of Una’s walls.”

She watched Solas as he left, admiring every inch of him with pride.  She peeked after him and heard his short and candid apology, saw the others gathered there.  The witch was magnificent and terrifying, and there was Una with robes like his in a different color, her casting arm likewise bare, her hair the same style she used to wear a’hunting.  Standing tall among her entourage, she looked more authoritative and splendid than Veyla had ever seen. 

 _They are fantastic_.

Her keen eyes slid to Varric then, and found his outfit much the same as always. The dwarf stood catty-corner to her vantage. Worry was unusual on his face.  His bothered amber eyes beheld the slender  _shemlen_  to his right, a lithe and tapered leather back she could hardly stand to look at, yet hardly tear her gaze from.  She glanced at his hat forgotten on the floor where she had left it, and she sniffed with scorn.

It was her second time to see him in his pitch-black battle clothes, and now in secrecy she did not have the lux’ry of before, she admired his enigmatic strength from behind.  His boots were tall and tight and full of buckles, his leather pants not taut to skin, but near enough to make a feasting voyeur blush.  Hilts hovering o’er his high shoulders, blades crossed at his upper back, straps with functions she could only wonder at criss-crossing crooked ‘round his hips and chest.  His arms came to his sides, she saw him working his fist with nerves in a squeaking leather glove.

Her imagination rushed with Solas’ words of praising prowess. Though Veyla was fairly certain she hated his guts, she sure wished she could watch Cole fight. 

It happened in an instant.  Her mouth fell open in horror, for she was suddenly aware of Varric’s golden eyes watching her infatuated staring.  He smiled with mischief when she noticed him, and he  _waved_  at her, Cole saw him wave and turned around, confused. 

The shocked pain and longing on his face when he beheld her froze her feet to the ground.  She thought his sky-blue eyes cried out to  _her_  for help.  Emotion warred on his face as he looked away, the nervous hand that had been fidgeting now coming up to press his eyes.

A dazzling flash bruised her unready heart, and they were gone.


	37. She Will Not

Misguided cravings for revenge and injury brought him south to the Brecilian Forest.  He paced impatient at the waystone which was thrumming with potential at the trinket clasped in his clammy palm.  He heard no birds, he heard no wind.  He longed to quit this place and return to the Free Marches.

The mage came then, her vallaslin most wicked and menacing, as were all the faces in Clan Fin’as.  Her eyes were the color of burning fire, unlike anything he’d ever seen, and their gaze bade him fall back a step.  Her voice was honeyed and serene, yet somehow dreadful.  He had forgotten how the elves of Clan Fin’as would file their teeth.

“Aaran Lavellan.  You come.  What say you of my offer?”

His eyes narrowed as he stepped towards her, intimidation giving way to determination in his mind.  “She means to ruin us all, she misguides the hearts and values of our people to extinction with her blasphemy.  Those of us who question her grow fewer with each passing day.  As we dwindle, she grows fat and strong on lies and evil witchery.  She is too strong, and we may already be too late.  We cannot succeed without your help.”

He held his hand out, then, revealing the unassuming gray stone etched with Elvish, a hole drilled through the middle for keeping on a cord.  The mage had hardly been listening – the fire in her eyes burned bright as she chuckled with the resonance of a man or something worse, snatching the thing from his hand and eyeing it for herself.  He watched her as she took the artifact he did not rightly understand.  His heart pained to part with it.

“It is the only key to Skyhold's waystone, save through the hands and hearts of the members of her blighted Inquisition.  It pains me greatly, stealing from our Keeper – But for victory against her treachery, I would do it again.  I pray Deshanna will forgive me.”

That chuckle again, dark and ominous, and she plopped the little stone into a pouch at her hip.  “ _Aaran Lavellan._ She will not.”

He began to protest as the mage walked away, his voice ringing through the silent woods.  “Remember our  _bargain,_  mage Fin’as!  You must destroy her!”

Her steps did not stop, and she made no attempt to raise her voice for ease of his hearing.  “Oh, we  _will_ , eager hunter Lavellan.  But not in Skyhold.”

He watched as she disappeared into the trees, too desperately convinced of his rightness to doubt.


	38. Only My Brother

Scathing sandy wind kept lips tight and heads bowed o’er the necks of Swiftwinds toiling in the flats.  The brainy beasts tacked and jibed with unguided streaming haste to navigate a barren sea of dust and blazing heat, distilling what would have been a hellish day on foot into but a few miserable hours.

Soughing relief struck mounts and riders alike as the entourage filed singly in the shelter of a deep and narrow canyon, yanking kerchiefs from their faces.  The surface high above them howled with whipping wind.  Though sand tinkled occasionally down onto their heads, the lack of air-driven abrasion spelled to them relief.  

The sunlight glowed ‘gainst towering wavy surfaces of red and orange stone, taking up vibrant hues that slid across their faces as they rode ever onward.  So narrow and uneven were the walls of the ravine, the harts were sometimes forced to duck their noble heads for passage.

A hiss from Varric’s teeth as the low part of the canyon grew too narrow for his Dwarven calves around his mount.  His hurting breath was all the news she needed, and she stopped.  His feeling hart, by now his long-time road companion, took a few steps backwards to unbind him.  The beast gave a quiet warbling whinny and a toss of her head, as though to empathize; such action brought her antlers clanging ‘gainst the wall.  Displeased, she gave an indignant nicker and a stomping of her foot. 

Varric broke the silence then, as none of them had taken voice the whole day long, even in the relative calm of the gully.  “Sorry, Fancy.”  He gave her neck a loving pat.  The dwarf climbed awkwardly to walk his feet along the wall above the bottleneck, plopped back down into the saddle with a _thump_.

He raised his voice to be heard past Cole and Morrigan’s backs.  Only Solas was behind him, looking doubly pensive.  “I tell you what, these harts are really something, Goldy!  I’ve never seen a beast as smart as Fancy.  I think I’ll keep her when the war is over.”  A trilling squall, a flick of furry ears.

Una chuckled ‘neath her breath, too softly for his hearing.  “If she’ll have you, Varric, gladly so.” 

She turned in her saddle then, her slender back and hips flowing with the tempo of riding.  She spoke so only Cole could hear.  “Sweet one, I noticed you struggling with your mount in the flats.  Is everything alright?  Is he willful today?  I miss you, Cole, we have not shared company in weeks.  It seems you need another haircut.”  Angry trumpeting and stomping in response, but the walking beast did not throw him.  She cringed a bit and glanced at the beast’s eyes.  Concern came on her mottled red and orange face as they pressed onward.

So inside himself was he, he forgot his rage at her.  Though he was sincere, he sounded quite distracted. “He’s alright.  He prob’ly-..he can tell I’m queasy, and he doesn’t like it.  I’ve missed you, too.  I was worried about you, and now I’m happy for you both.  I thought he would be angry with me – he isn’t.”

She’d faced rearward long enough, and could see Morrigan’s sharp eyes lingering with curiosity on their conversation.  She turned to face the front, tongue clicking  to speed their passage as the pressing canyon yielded slightly outward.  “I’m glad to hear he isn’t angry with you, Cole.  We will talk more at camp tonight – I can’t _wait_ to hear about my Veyla and your hat.”

She heard the way that shut him up and made him shrink two sizes, and she was perplexed.

Speech left them once more, and onward they all toiled.  By mid-afternoon, the ravine squeezed them tightly and spit them out into another flat; here, the air was thankfully still.  The place was quiet as death, not so much as one solitary scampering fennec to break the silence.  Air was the only sound, and that was next to nothing.

And the _vastness_.  In the blinding stripping wind before, she hadn’t sensed the size of the flats they left behind them.  So overwhelmed was Una, she pulled her mount to stop, piling her forgotten companions in the cramped mouth of the canyon.  Barren empty space stretched on for seeming worlds of span, terminating in a blinding shimmer of horizon, implying endless leagues of _more_.  She felt this desolate place pulling at her soul, felt the trinket on her chest thrum a warning as she turned her steed to trot along the wall, dismounting in a reverent trance.

Morrigan observed the Inquisitor’s reaction with interest, blocking the passage for Varric and Solas.  Cole stayed to the other side of the canyon’s mouth, waiting, chewing on his nails as he stared unseeing at his hart’s velveteen rack. 

Solas could see nothing of Una, save the curiosity in Morrigan’s tilted head.  He knew where they were, and that was enough.  His voice rang clarious through the echoing ravine.

“Let me pass.”

Varric gestured in apology without turning around, and Morrigan did nothing.  Her halting mount did not seem interested in gaining the flats, and neither did she.  She ignored Solas as she addressed Una from the threshold of the canyon.

“What is happening, Inquisitor?  What is it you feel?  And what is that strange… _aura_ at your neck?  It is new.  Cole, what is she thinking?”

Neither made an answer.  A rock exploded with a shattering **_crack_** beneath Morrigan’s mount, it sent the beast careening with surprise, sent Morrigan spilling to the ground.  Varric could not get out of Solas’ way fast enough as he urged his hart forward, shooting Morrigan a derisive glance as he rushed to dismount next to Una.  Though he could feel the pulling of the place, it did not affect his godly soul as it did hers.

His leather-clad chest and shoulders filled her view, and still she stood staring as though she could see the endless distance through him.  He looked down past her braids to see her eyes, transfixed.  His voice was clear and firm for all of them to hear, and the entire party watched them both.

“Inquisitor.”

Nothing.  A rapid hand rose to silence Morrigan in her first syllable of protest, and he spoke again, his tense eyes never leaving her.

“Inquisitor, look at me.”

Gaping, overwhelmed, taken and gone, she truly did not hear him.  He crouched to bring his piercing eyes level with her own, his pupils pinpricked by Mythal’s flaming sun.  His hands gripped her shoulders as he whispered Elvish instructions with razor-sharp quickness.

_“Una, hear me.  Look at me.  I know you love the desert, but this place is not for you.  Come to me, vhenan.  Only my brother can guide you through these wastes, and he is lost to us.  Your soul is weary, lath, but this is not the way.”_

Slow blinking, then, and her eyes found him, her voice breathless and far.  “Solas.  What…what _is_ this place?”

Composed as Solas was, they all watched his heart stop and start again.  He took a rattling breath of relief, his hands tight and trembling on her shoulders as he bowed his head and shook it.

Flemeth’s daughter smirked with inquisitive cheek as she watched, for she spoke fluent Elvish.  It was not veiled romance that set her eyebrows high.


	39. Her Fumbling Mistakes Will Make Her Yours

**_“I tire of waiting.”_ **

“Elder One.  No powers that be can execute these old magicks with more haste.  Very soon, My Lord, her fumbling mistakes will make her yours.”

Agruin Fin’as, an elfmage with the eyes of one possessed, stepped aside and gestured with a sweeping arm.  A sacred wooded glen once verdant, trampled not so long ago by countless bare and eager feet, now black and sooted wasteland.  Not even skeletons of trees remained.  The once-blue sky was twilit with floating, burning ash.  From being there, from causing it, her robes and face were smudged with grime.

More than twenty crouching hooded figures worked in pairs, pulling slender carven pillars black as onyx out of ruined nothing.  Wicked-looking obelisks dotted the razed landscape like fence posts, connected in spirals by twisted ropes that lay with loose ends at the feet of a familiar gray waystone.  The ropetails numbered dozens, and the chains of blighted waystones stretched far into desolation.

**_“You will gain immortality, elf, if you do not fail me.  Summon me when it is ready.”_ **

His image shimmered into nothing.  Sharp-toothed grinning Agruin set back to work, pulling rush’d waystones from the charred earth with the rest.


	40. You Wanted This for Him

“I cannot carry all of you.”

Distrustful but with no alternative, Solas gave a short nod of consent.  They were gathered in the canyon now, Una in possession of her wits, but not of answers as to the nature of this place.  There was no time to understand.

“Then Cole and Varric will wait here.  Come, let us make haste.”

Una held a hand out to stop Solas rushing past her, confusion sliding side-seat to her leadership.  Solas never spoke out of turn like this, giving orders – this place had all of them on edge, especially him.  “Absolutely not.  Regardless of the situation, I will not leave half my party without a mage’s aid.  Point the way, Solas, and we shall go alone.”

Her tone would entertain no argument.  His lips drew tight and thin as he glared into her eyes with the anger of a caring and disregarded lover, heedless of their audience.  Her plain eye contact in response was every inch unyielding, as he knew it’d be.  Were it not for her possession of the Anchor, Fen’Harel would undermine her here without a second thought.  In this she risked the world, she risked her life, she risked his only love and hope.  But Fen’Harel had tried her will before, and would not waste their precious time in inevitable failure.

His tongue was curt and sharp, beyond furious with her.  “Very well, Inquisitor, but I shall need to ward you, and the ward will be a heavy one.  The wills that tempt are strong, the protection will not last you twenty minutes.  You must be swift, Inquisitor, or the wastes will have your elven soul, and we will all be lost.”

She set her jaw, heart fluttering with fear of the beckoning abyss that nearly consumed her just minutes before.  She sensed the anger in his voice and knew the dangers must be real to unnerve her steadfast godly lover so.  “I understand.  Show me.”

His wary eyes brushed over Morrigan as he strode to the mouth of the canyon, pointing into endless stretching silence.  His other hand bade her stay in the canyon, his own toes in the burning sand.

“There.  One towering karst, the color of this canyon.  Concentrate, Inquisitor.  Tell me when you see it.  The wastes will fight your search.”

She leaned in towards his hand to follow his indication, keen vision that could shaft a darting hare through sockets scanning frantically for purchase on the shimmering horizon. 

She felt the pulling then, even with her bare feet on what he’d implied was safer stone.  The tooth on her bosom stung her with warning once again, and she felt the guarding hand that held her back begin to place a ward.  Distracting, it _was_ heavy, it weighed on her like plate armor much too big, it strained her knees and made her aura sag. 

Chaos came, and still her burning eyes could not locate the jutting monolith.  A beating of wings high above, and she heard Solas curse with rage, and still, she did not see it.  She felt panic growing as Morrigan rushed past them, morphing lightning quick into a dragon as something new and dreadful cast a shadow on the sand – a Venatori Spellbinder mounted on a darting wyvern, headed straight for the direction in which Solas had been pointing.

_How did they get here?  Why are they here?_

None of the artifacts had been like _this._ Though terrified, the Inquisitor would not give in to despair.  Still, she could not _see._ “Solas, I _don’t_ – “

A rushing echoed in the canyon walls, and Solas shoved with all his violent strength surging against her back, sent her spilling out into the merciless sun, her stumbling thick and slow with warding.

**“ _GO! NOW!”_**

He spun to fight, twisted staff twirling in a deadly arc from above his bracing shoulders, the veil strummed wicked fast to cast a burning wall of veilfire and buy them all a moment’s time. Her three companions backed out into the sand behind her, their footsteps cautious with forboding.  Harts scattered, searching for a haven, finding only sand.  Blades flashed, bow cocked, wards blazed, and an icy glimmer ate away their barrier of borrowed time.

She gained her footing from that shoving stumble and sprinted forward, running up Morrigan’s razor-sharp back with determined haste.  She fell _hard_ when the beast surged and wings started flapping, had to grasp dear life through scales that sliced her flesh like butter.  She forced her head up ‘gainst rushing wind to stare into the blinding sun of the horizon, searching for her precious landmark.  She did not turn her head to see the grisly battle that engulfed her friends.

Wings barely skipped a beat as Morrigan overtook the wyvern, rending rider and mount asunder like gory dolls of paper with an ear injuring screech of triumph.  They sped onward, and still Una could see nothing.  Her girded thighs squeezed rippling power that pierced and set blood flowing.

Deeper in the flats she could feel _whispers_ just outside her mind, inviting her to slip her ward and tumble through the sky to fall, to break her bones and die. She felt hands tugging her protection with a very real force, like an over-eager host would yank the jacket of an unwilling guest who stayed too short.  Her grip against the dragon's cutting back wore her body to the bone, she grit her teeth and would not yield, her eyes still searching in defiance.  Minutes passed like lifetimes as she struggled 'gainst the beckoning.

And then she saw it, and her heart rejoiced.  She hollered o’er the noise of violent soaring, over dreaded coaxing whispers.  ”There! Just there!  To the right of the sun!”

And then came clipping speed, but with it no reprieve from prying hell.

\---

The Inquisition was not accustomed to being ambushed, and they retaliated without mercy.  Tactically, their vantage point was sound – their fanning strength brought unrelenting butchery to the mouth of the canyon, spilling gallons of Tevinter blood on the threshold of Falon’Din’s summer home.  Varric shouted a cliché through counting, something about fish and barrels.

The explosion changed the game. 

Solas recoiled with shielding, lightning-quick, crumbling sandstone boulders breaking ‘round his shimmering dome.  His unyielding retaliation dampened numbers spilling from the maw that now gaped in the wall before the three, giving Cole and Varric but a moment to find their feet before the wave was on them.

Bianca sang with murder as the agile-footed dwarf felled foes and went unscathed; a gilded stock would break the jaw of fools who came too close. Perhaps a bolt would find their throat while their comrades danced and winced o’er savage caltrops, helpless against the Fademancer’s barrage of other worldly force that sent dozens spilling to the ground.   

Cole, as always, fought unseen and alone.  There was no teamwork in his killing, save that they stayed back while he slid forward.  Be it three or four of them, to him it was the same: Move in, slit throats, end it.  Mercy without mercy.

The artistic executioner had not paid himself due credit when he fussed and fidgeted with worry o’er humanness and loss of skill.  He found their throats with ease, as one finds his familiar lover in the dark.  Mages, zealots, marksmen – they all died just the same.  Though these were the most skilled Venatori the Inquisition had e’er faced, that they bared their numbers only penned them in for slaughter.  The enemy ranks were decimated within minutes.

It was a wedding ring that did it.  A symbol he’d heard of many times before, and one he’d read about, that only just began to have real meaning in his heart.  There weren’t many to see in the Inquisition, and this was the only one on the field today.  In killing this man, Cole would make a widow.  His lovesick heart wondered how the man proposed, wondered if he loved her now the way he had back then, or if their marriage was a loveless thing, the woman better off.

Still, he meant to kill the man.  But his thoughts stopped his pliant dance for less than half a moment, and in the dwindling fray, it was enough.  He saw the bolt come through the man’s pale throat, heard his friends scream his name as he fumbled to his knees and reflexively clutched at his chest. Only then did Cole understand the blade that ran him through, jutting from between his ribs, slick with his flowing blood.

_“KID, I’M COMING! DON’T – NO, COLE, DON’T PULL IT OUT! DON’T LAY DOWN! WAIT FOR ME, KID!”_

A pathetic time in battle to be stabbed, one could say, as they had all but won.  The last few Venatori fell even as his friends rushed to his side in aid.  Then again, it was only by the grace of waiting ‘til the end to falter that young Cole stood a chance.

So many new pains today, so many.  The sunlight burned his eyes, but somehow he could not close them.  He had felt this pain in countless soldiers as they lay dying, the thoughts, the fears, the suffering.

He did not feel prepared at all.

The voice of a friend, soothing and wise, one cold patch of benediction shivering on his back.  _“Cole.  Pain is a lesson, not something to fear.  I am here, Cole, you will live.  Stop screaming.  Hold still._ ”

_I am.  I’m screaming._

No words, just choking screams and sobs, tears of pain and horror on his face.  He kept jerking from their grasps and trying to run away, his body not his own.  He felt gravity pulling the dripping blade that jutted from his chest, and he clawed at slick leather in a feral panic.

“MAKER DAMN YOU, SOLAS, HELP HIM! KNOCK HIM OUT!”  A glimpse of Varric’s face – he was crying, he was desperate and pained, his fumbling gloves trying their best to hold Cole still.

A surge of pressure in his head, then, and he fell back limp into the mage’s arms.  Solas pulled the blade from him and placed him gently on the ground, his strong and slender hands cupping wounds that throbbed and pumped.

Cole’s heart was moving slower, his mind came to normal speed.  Tears still ran in rivers down the sides of his face as he gasped up at the blinding sky.  His voice was hoarse and croaking, sputtering with blood.

_“Change me back.”_

Reality unsoftened, blood seeping through his fingers as his magic wove the young man’s lung back together.

“You are a mortal man now, Cole.  I feel the truth in your blood and your pain – the spirit in your heart is just a memory.  This is your life, now.  It is fragile and precious, and it is all you are.  You should have _told me.”_

Varric’s heartwrenching fury echoed clear into the broken canyon.

“You heartless _bastard_ , he’s still _awake?_ Don’t make him go through this! He’s just a _kid!”_

The friends warred over his broken human body, even as they pulled him back together.  The healing _burned_ like searing fire.

“Child of the Stone, do not shoot daggers at me for the truth.  I mourn the loss of a rare and gorgeous spirit at _your_ hand, and I have killed greater men for less.”

Cole could feel Varric grabbing Solas by the edge of his robes, he felt the jerking ‘gainst his healing hands cause pain.  He began to beg again, begging for the pain to stop, begging against the truth to be a spirit once again.

“I have a _name_ , you smug son of a bitch, and I will end your smirking pride _right here_ in the sodding _desert_ if you don’t show this boy mercy and let him sleep.”

“Let me go, Varric, you are wounding him.  As I said, pain is a lesson this boy needs to learn.  Cole is _mortal_ now.  Do you understand how _alien_ that is to him?  He is trapped in this body for the rest of his days, and if we do not tutor him, Varric, he will kill himself with ignorance.  You _wanted_ this for him.”

Varric let Solas go, shaking his head as his red-rimmed eyes fell to Cole’s face.  He leaned forward to look at him, mopping sweat from Cole's quaking brow and murmuring a comfort before he answered to the scolding.  His voice was quiet, painted now with remorse.

“Cole came through, he _wanted_ to be human.  The questions he would ask me, _still_ asks _everyone_ , the hunger for knowledge, the _wonder_ life held for him…”

“You are wrong, Varric.  Cole came through to _help_ , not to _change_.  He was curious as many spirits are, about the world where you and I are sitting now, watching his mortal blood soak into the sand.  I assure you, this is _not_ what that wondering spirit wanted.  But, it is too late.  Here he is, and he is mortal, and he must be taught.  To learn of pain, he must stay awake.”

Varric’s gaze lingered on Cole’s blanching face.  “I think he blacked out, Chuckles.  So you don’t think he can hear our thoughts anymore?"

“I know that he cannot.”

An unconvincing chuckle.  “That must be a relief.”

“I assure you, Varric.  To him, it is a nightmare beyond all imagining.”

Varric’s face fell grim, and he said nothing more.  Solas rose to his tired feet, his hands and forearms smeared with Cole’s slick blood. 

No sooner did he stand than their witching dragon landed with a stinging whip of air and sand, sending Una spilling like a ragdoll to the ground.  Solas could feel the ward was all but gone, and he rushed to her side, scooping her up in his arms and running with her into the canyon.  He smelled her blood, saw the biting lacerations on her gripping hands.  To ride a dragon was a painful, cutting thing.

Solas set her back against the wall and slid to his knees before her, brushing sweaty windswept tangles from her face. He felt Morrigan approaching.  Varric asked after Una’s well-being as he knelt in bloody sand beside his friend, and Solas spoke to her with worry.  “Inquisitor.  Did you manage it?”

A triumphant little smile, as smug as she could ever be, a confidence that bade him grin back in return and pinch her cheek. Her voice was beyond hoarse.

“Come, now.  Did you doubt me?”


	41. Mythal Watched Me Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To spare your brain confusion: In this story line, Kieran was never born.

Their campfire was a modest pile of hot and glowing rocks, for this deep and lifeless desert held no tinder.  It felt more cave than canyon, this one forgiving wideness in the squeezing, towering stone, a space nearly half the size of his rotunda.  Wards that would astound the First Enchanter glimmered 'round his friends.

Fen’Harel set his back against the wall and watched them sleep across the fire, tired fingers twiddling the bottle in his palm.  He forgot how much he loathed the briny stuff as his blue eyes dined admiringly upon their steadfast friendship. 

Their new man was laying on his back now, safe, a ruddy healthy color blooming on his porcelain face.  While Varric was reserved in guardianship – he was on his back close beside the boy, snoring like an ox – Solas saw his loving goddess defending fiercely like a mother wolf.  She was curled up on her side with her face above Cole’s head, cradling his sleeping cheek against her breast, her leg across his middle in protection.  The three of them, still dressed in full battle regalia, hummed rhythmically with snoozing.

His confidential gaze lingered with indulgence on her sleeping face, so close but nigh untouchable lest someone catch him loving.  He’d forced the tattered party too long on their feet, ensuring ample distance from the sands that plagued her mind.  He felt the dreading of the day sap his heart as he beheld her: strong, asleep, and **safe.**

_I can scarce believe that you survived the trials of Banaluth alone, my mortal love.  Corypheus will be a lark to us.  Our war is all but won, I should rejoice.  Yet my heart still writhes in agony, emma lath, at how near I came to losing you today.  The day you don’t surprise me – on that day, my heart will cease to beat._

A sharp exhale of breath then and he downed the brackish lyrium, his face contorting in disgust as half-baked energy fanned against the veil, making heavy steps tread lighter at the cost of burning dirty.  The salty taste that would not leave him, the burning in his nose, the squeaky feeling on his teeth and bones, the way it pulled his aura thin and out of focus. 

He could hardly stand to drink it, but with demands of wards and healing on his limited reserves, tonight he had no choice.  He longed to have his power back to full, to never drink the stuff again, to throw a crate’s worth off a cliff and laugh and jeer.  The rest of them were used to it; even Una seemed to feel no hint of difference, or if she did, she never griped a word. 

Fen’Harel hurled the empty vial down the corridor of the ravine with a satisfying _clink_ , _clink, clink-clink-clink_ , and then rose to his feet with a miserable smack of his offended tongue.  He went to have a pass at looking out and pissing, stepping past the border of his wards.

He wandered quite a ways back toward his brother’s empty kingdom, the glinting staff strapped on his back his only light.  The desert night was chill, and silent and serene, save vexing padding paws that seemed to think themselves quite stealthy.  For all her sneaking, Fen’Harel could smell the woman clear around the bend.  Gentility did not stay him, for he regarded her quite low.  Buckles clinked, a hand held back his robes, and steam rose in glowing veilfire as he relieved himself against the wall.

She surely thought herself so cheeky, materializing there behind him.  So self-concerned was she, he noticed with disdain, she spent the energy to keep her clothes through morphing.  He felt the magic of her transformation, judged it sloppy, gave his cock a shake, said nothing.

 _“So._ The handsome gods who walk among us piss, just like the rest.”

He kept his back to her as he righted his robes, buckles jangling in his hands.  His cool gaze held the wall before him as he spoke, the slightest tilt of his head lending accent to the acid in his words.  “Flattery will guide you to an empty hall with me, Advisor.  If it’s a cock you seek tonight, sneaking on a pissing elf is the closest you will get.”

She chuckled richly at him, making to brush something from his shoulder.  Her touch bade his hackles rise, her voice was mild and light.  “Oh, I would never _dream_ of bedding the Inquisitor’s clandestine paramour, tempting though he may be.  I am here because I have remembered something.”

Solas was nothing if not patient.  He held his position, continuing to marvel at the wall, which held far more interest and threat than her annoyance. His thumb hooked at his belted waist.  “Ah.  So you remember where you left the top half of your outfit, and you came to share the news.  Well, I am happy for us both.”

She ignored his sarcasm.  She sparked a glowing orb of light into the air, the better to behold his robe-clad backside as she spoke.  Her yellow eyes wandered over his broad shoulders and the sharp angles of his bare neck as a smirk brewed on her lips.

“I remember, finally, where I have seen your face before.  When I was but a girl, you visited my mother – several times, in fact.  In the wake of your company, she always acted…strange.”

He said nothing.

“Well?”

“I am waiting for your question, Advisor.  My teenaged daughter speaks more straight than you.”

She was not flustered yet.  She eyed him like a cat, her voice grew eager with every passing word.  “I learn my _darling_ mother is Mythal. I recall _you_ calling on her home, as no other ever did.  I hear you calling Falon’Din’s ancient and forgotten _Banaluth_ the holding of your brother.  I would have the truth.”

He made no answer, still.

“Come now, tell me.  Which god are you?”

He turned to look at her, his passive face crowned with eyebrows most incredulous.  “ _Honestly._   If I _were_ a god, Advisor, I would not waste my time in tolerating your childish, sleuthing nonsense.  There is a shop in Val Royeaux that sells little candied treasure maps.  I will fetch you one when next I go, that you may have a frolic.” 

He made to leave, but her hand on his chest stopped him.  She kept it there, her long nails curling ‘gainst his hand-tooled leather gift.  “You do not _deny_ , then, that you visited my mother.”

His eyes fell still upon her face in warning, yet her hand remained.  “I have tread all over Thedas, and surely have not marked each woman I have passed.  You embarrass yourself with these delusions of importance.  It seems you have obsessed too much over Elvhen history, to what ends I cannot imagine.  I’d thank your deranged fancies for granting me wide berth.”

He brushed her hand away, he made to leave again, and still she grabbed him.  The heel of her palm slid against his hip as she stopped him with her body, commanding his attention.

“I _know_ what you are, Solas, and I _will_ out you.  The Inquisitor will have no choice but to denounce you, and even then her cause will crumble with doubt.”

Her intimacy wore his patience thin, but still he did not retaliate.  Threat rumbled in his chest as his eyes narrowed down at her.  “Leave me, witch, for you are mad, and I tire of your blathering.  Her cause is all of ours, and you well know it.”

Her hand found his ass then, pulling him close as she glared up at him, defiant in her lust.  _“I demand a child of you, old god.  Give me what I want, or I will ruin your life_.”

Fen’Harel’s uproarious laughter made it difficult for her to land the forceful kiss she fired at his mouth.  His chortling continued as his strong hand found her throat, bearing her away from him and up against the rough and rippling wall of stone.  She choked as he held her aloft effortlessly, the rest of him relaxed and standing at ease. 

All those magics on which she prided herself so, she could not bid them come.  The light she’d set a’glimmering fizzled into nothing, leaving his menacingly gleeful face backlit by the veilfire in his staff.  Her aura locked about her body, hard and brittle.  She gasped for breath, tears springing to her eyes as she gaped down at him.

His _tone_ as he beheld her terror-stricken face above his own, his voice so light and full of humor, even as his vising threatened to crush and end her life.  His gleaming toothy smile was sinister in its good-nature.  He shook his head in disbelief as he spoke unrushed, tears of mirth in the corners of his eyes, his words riding on chuckles.

“You devote yourself to attainments; you’ve convinced yourself you _understand_ them. Where do they lead you, girl?  The _confidence_ with which you pledged your foolish self to Mythal’s wisp! Your _face_ when her familiar vassal came calling on you!  And _still_ , you say _she_ is Mythal, and you learn _nothing._

Here you stand, a _slave_ of your own misguided ignorance, and make to blackmail he you fancy as a god, for what?  For _sex!_   For some precious wee immortal bastard to bend towards your will - by doing _what_ , the heavens only know.  Or else you’ll _ruin his life_ , you say! _Dirthara ma, dirthara ma, da’len!”_

His grin softened to unreadable blankness as he beheld her, steely eyes of ice lacking in remorse.  The face she’d once thought handsome pulled in close, his moist lips brushing her chin as he whispered up at her, a dimple in the corner of his mouth as he fought a jerking smile.  “Understand your fleeting usefulness is all that stays my hand, witch, and listen to me now.  If you fail against that blighted high dragon, do yourself a kindness; let her kill you, lest I _teach_ you who I am.  One way or another, fool who hunts for ancient things beyond your understanding, you will learn the horror of what you seek.”

The god released the witch and she went spilling to the ground, shaking, clutching her bruised throat, gasping for air.  Her aura shuddered against her body with the trauma of their encounter as her yellow eyes watched him walk back towards the others, the same reserved and unassuming gait he’d always kept.  He left Flemeth's vexing whelp there in the dark, alone, to dwell on her misstep.

He resumed his seat with his back against the wall as if nothing had happened.  Cole, now awake, heard a brooding little sigh as Solas swigged his second draught of lyrium.  This bottle, too, he tossed clinking into the dark, with even more resentful gusto than the first.  Solas spoke, quite softly.  His voice was of a different elf than just minutes before.  “Cole.  How are you feeling?”

Cole _was_ awake, but he hadn’t stirred from Una’s loving arms.  He was taking pleasure in her breath upon his hair, in her motherly protective nuzzling of his face, in her scent.  His eyebrows twitched surprised as he grunted with a stretch, gingerly extracting himself from her warm embrace.  He did not part from her without reluctance; still, he rose to sitting, whispered back.

“It still hurts to breathe, but I’m not frightened anymore.  How could you tell I was awake?”

Solas smiled with ease, allowing his head to fall back on the wall, eyelids heavy as he looked down the length of his face at the boy.   He brought one knee up near his chest, a perch for his loose wrist.  His other hand dug lazily in a pack at his side.  “I listen.  You will learn to do the same, and you will be marvelous at it.”

A loaf of traveler’s bread then, which he tore in half, tossed part across the fire of stone that did not crackle.  Cole caught it gratefully, smiling back at Solas with a question as his fingers tore a crusty chunk and set to chewing wordlessly.  He made quick work of it, for he was starving.

Solas plucked the softest morsel from the middle of his half, popping yeasty fluff into his mouth with a tired nasal sigh.  He chewed reflectively, he swallowed, he nodded ‘gainst the wall.  “I missed breakfast, too.  I believe the rumbling in our bellies may have caused a rock slide today.”  From Cole this drew the smallest chuckle, something like a sniff.

Solas gave the ground at his side a pat, idly rolling a pinched bit of bread between his fingers.  “Come, Cole.  I would know your thoughts.”

If anyone could move without disturbing tangled sleep, Cole was the man to do it.  His slender hips swayed with tip-toeing across Varric’s body. He winced silently as he knelt to take a seat near Solas, hand holding at the hole rent in his fitted leather jacket.  Solas hummed in acknowledgement as he watched the young man sit.

“Though healed, your wound will ache for several days. The more you sleep, the better.  Unfortunately, I fear you will not have that luxury in the days to come.”

Cole listened but made no response, and the two men sat in silence for a time.  Just as Cole was certain Solas had fallen asleep, he began to speak, his voice gentle and open.  “Tell your mind to me, Cole.  I would help you understand yourself.  Be as honest as you can.”

“But…I’m a man now, Solas.  You’re an elf.”

A warm chuckle, a joke older than the canyon ‘gainst which he set his back.  His words made him a hypocrite.  “We are not so different, my friend.”

Cole scooted back to lean on the wall beside his friend and tutor, his guarding hand not once leaving the place where he’d been stabbed.  He looked up toward where he knew the sky to be, but there saw only firelight recede to blackness on a towering orange wall.

“I’m very tired, I know that.  Not just my body, but my _chest_ , and not the stabbing.  I ache, and I feel like the bread won’t stay.”

“Mmm.  You have been through quite a lot today.  What else?”

A pause then, he squinted up at nothing as he thought. 

“I feel like… like I don’t know what I want.  I feel like I _should_ want something, but I don’t know what it is.  I think I want to help people, but that-…it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. And that scares me, because it’s dangerous to want more than I’m meant to.”

His voice was but a murmur, intimate and wise.  His lips barely moved with speech, and still his eyes were closed.  “You are human, Cole, the rules are very different.  To want for many things is natural and healthy, and the list of things you’ll grow to want is _endless._   In all of these desires, there will be both black and white, and many shades of gray between.  It will be up to you to steer yourself towards goodness through your actions if you wish it.”

“Oh – Well, yes.  I do want to be good.”

A gentle nod.  “I’m sure you do.  Bear in mind, however, that a dabble in the gray will keep you interesting.  What else, my friend?”

Cole’s wondering blue eyes left the darkness up above, they came to fall upon his sleeping friends.  “I love my friends, I know it’s love, and it makes me happy…”

“Mmm.  But?”

A whisper.  “I want to keep them safe.  I don’t want to come, but I don’t want them to fight without me.”

“Ah.  Duty.  I know it well, and I have shirked it more than once.”

“What?”

“The way you felt compelled to ease suffering before – it was not duty to you, for it was all you knew, it was the very purpose of your being.  A man or elf may choose to bend himself to _anything_ , and short of laws or vengeful others, he answers only to himself.  A sense of duty bids him stay the course that he may otherwise forsake.”

“So duty is…good.  Like the Chantry.”

“Duty is not good or evil, Cole.  It is a construct of the mind, a way to guide decisions, to artificially limit a man’s possibilities and help him make a choice.  To narrow options is a very mortal way to manage life.  Faith and duty are very similar in that regard. The _Chantry_ is another thing altogether.”

A long, deep breath.  A slow exhale. “Being human is confusing.  I don’t know if I like it.”

Solas moved then, though his eyes were lidded, a hand slid to squeeze Cole’s knee with love.  “You are brilliant, Cole, it will come.  You will like it more the more you understand.  Have Varric recommend some novels, and I will lend you history; timeless stories are a window to the soul, and they will teach you much.  Do not rush, do not fret, and do not get stabbed in the chest.”

He couldn’t laugh at that, but he took pleasure in his friend’s supportive touch.  “Solas, will you help me understand through you?”  His voice grew very quiet then, though the others were asleep.  “I miss hearing minds so much, yours most of all.  Please, tell me something, anything.”

This caused sleepy ice blue eyes to open, a pointed ear came against the wall as he turned his head to look at Cole with gentleness.  The rocks were losing power, they set shadows dancing on his chiseled face. 

“I am not so sure my story is appropriate or helpful, Cole.  My life and yours are very different.”

Cole knit his brow, determined, his ear finding the wall as well.  His eyes beseeched.  “Tell me what you think’s important, help me understand and choose.  I know we must defeat Corypheus, but…”

Solas gave a nod and rolled his head back once again, looking at their sleeping friends.  “No, I understand.  Do you know the word _atonement_ , Cole?”

Cole watched his teacher’s face with eagerness.  “Yes. It’s searching for forgiveness; I’ve helped with that a lot.”

“Very good.  Atonement is important to me, it has driven many of the choices in my life.  I am also set to motion by desire and stubborn pride.”

A whisper, his eyes struggling to understand.  “But demons call to those emotions, Solas, they aren’t good to have.”

Solas smiled as they made progress, finding honesty flowed easy from the lips of the Trickster God to he who was once a spirit.  “These feelings are in _all_ of us, Cole, they will be in you.  Tempered, they can do great work and bring much happiness, or turn and cut the hand.  We speak of a person’s mind here, not temptations in the Fade.”

“Aren’t they the same?”

“They are, Cole, and they aren’t.”

A flustered sound, and Cole seemed to give up for the night.  He looked at Solas one more time, saw where his eyes had drifted, saw the feeling on his face.

“Love.”

Solas lost his tongue at that, his guilty eyes were torn away from golden braids and closed. 

“Solas.  What about love?”

“Love is a topic o’er which I have a hard time being honest, Cole.  For most of my long life, I have avoided it.  Here I sit, and I have gladly given all I know of me for love.  I am lost to myself, my own reflection is confounding.  Of _her_ , however, I am sure.”

Cole’s mind queued up memories of Solas and Una’s suffering at each other’s hands for months.  He recalled the mage’s tortured mind that warred when making love, the injuries sustained, his melting bliss in cold moonlight.  The way his face went tight and urgent just today, when she said she’d go alone.

He thought of Veyla then, the way his soul would flutter when her dancing eyes invited him to playful sport. The way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when she hugged him ‘neath his coat.  The way her leaving broke his heart so clean in half it shocked him mortal, made him wish he’d never met her.

“So you regret it, too.”

The hand that rested on Cole’s knee gave another squeeze, this one firm and lasting.  “Though it touches all my life with being different, _no_ , Cole, not one part of me regrets.  My only regrets are that I almost gave her up to chase old ghosts of pride and guilt, and that I fear my loving her may do her harm.  Still, I cannot help myself.  Mythal watched me try.”

Cole lost himself to thought then, and Solas fell asleep.


	42. I Dreamed of Failure*

A shiver was what woke her, and Cole’s missing presence caused her eyes to snap right open as she grasped at empty air.  All was black as pitch, save the inside of the barriers that shimmered ‘round the edge, far too dim to illuminate her space.  Heart beating like a raging fist, she cast to set the stones alight, then gave a rattled sigh of desperate relief to see Cole sitting just across from her, sound asleep.  His head was on Solas’ shoulder.  The mage was conked off likewise, his angled face serene and peaceful, his head against the wall.  Their dreams had not connected, so she surmised he’d not been sleeping long.

 _Cold,_ it was cold.  It would take the stone-fed fire a while to heat the space.  Bare casting arm anesthetized with needling chill, her hip throbbing in protest at having slept in battle belts.  She shivered as she fought to undo her leather restraints, leaving straps there on the ground.  Though most minds would be numb from cold, hers was alive with thoughts as she unbraced.

Remorse, for one, about Cole’s horrid day, the pricks of which all stemmed from _her_ decisions.  She was anxious on the morrow, anxious o’er the fearsome trials of the day she left behind.  Her open heart cried out for comfort, and as was lifelong custom, she bade her barefaced soul be silent and endure.  Her persistent heart pulled at her then, jerked her chin sharp to the left, reminding her through gazing at his sleeping face that she now had options never in her life explored.  A memory of his warm embrace as she wept over sweet Mayren rushed her shiv’ring scramble to his side.

She was hesitant to wake him, for she knew the day had cost him much in energy.  Perhaps his touch would be enough.  She snatched a blanket from his unused bedroll and gently snuggled close on his free side, wrapping herself in coarse weave that held his calming scent of fields and paint and rain.

Solas was a heavy sleeper, and she took great care in moving soft.  Still, at her head on his chest the god did stir, her heart leapt with thrill and guilt as his casting arm slid around her shoulders in protection, his drowsy words rumbling in the lungs beneath her ear.

 _“Vhenan._   Sweet thing. You’re freezing.” 

His lips came to kiss the center of her crown of braids and stayed that way, his warm breath spreading ‘neath her hair as his hand rubbed up and down her slender arm outside the blanket.  Her eyes slid closed as she burrowed with a wordless purr that touched his heart and made him kiss her head again.

Cole woke, then, and cracked his neck as he moved away from Solas, watching their embrace through blurry eyes.  He would not trespass on their love, and politely slipped across the fire once more to find his own cold bed.  He held his ribs, and his half-waking face was grinning ear-to-ear with determined thoughts that weren’t of them.

The young man gone, Solas slid his second arm around his love to warm her, drawing her into his lap for whispered, sleepy conference.

“ _Emma lath,_ I could not catch your mind’s imaginings tonight.  What did you dream without me?”

Her cheek pressed his loving chest, her eyes wand’ring on his shoulder, for she was too happy with his presence to close them.  As she spoke, her fingers rose to pull loose a lock of hair at the nape of her neck, slow and steady pressure extracting streaming gold from its tight weave.

“I dreamed of failure, Solas, of the time I watched you die.”

He puzzled at her actions with her hair, her fingers fussing. Concern and pity pinched the corner of his mouth.  _“Mmm,_ that will not do.  So many nightmares in your heart, _vhenan._   Rooting out your troubled dreams certainly keeps me on my toes.”

A thought occurred, then.  “Nightmares plague our good Commander, and his rattle him much more than mine do me.  I would love for you to bring him peace, _vhenan._ ”

He smiled to himself and gave her arm a pat.  “It is not so easy with others as it is with you, _vhenan_ , but I will ease his mind when next I have the time.”

She sounded more than pleased. She was shifting in his lap to sit more straight, her soft warm rump upon his thigh was a delight.  “Thank you, love.  It means more than you know.  Can I see your hand?”

The curious, delighted face he wore more oft than not when alone with her, and he held up his palm for her inspection.  One hand guided him to rest his fingers in her lap as the other held the end of a long and tiny braid.  A pinch of magic at her scalp brought the gleaming strand loose in her fingers, and she set to wrapping snug across his wrist.  So long were her tresses, she made several criss-crossing passes as she spoke, blushing like a maiden in his lap.

“I cannot promise the protection of a god, my love.  Still, I would make a trinket of myself to you, full of wishes for your safety.  Please, _vhenan,_ don’t die.”

His old heart was deeply moved as he watched her gentle fingers fastening her golden gift.  When she finished, he turned his hand admiring before he squeezed her close.  “God or no, your favor is dearer to me than all the ancient secrets in the plains of _Dirthavaren_.  I will cherish it, _vhenan_ , and you need not fear for me.  Come.  Your hands are iced with cold, my love, and your ears are going pink.”

He guided her to stand and rose himself, moving to kneel beside his bedroll at the very edge of their modest camp.  His hands slid on the stone beneath, filling ground and bed with throbbing warmth.  He watched as she stood hunched and shivering, and whispered laughing as he held his second blanket aloft to invite her body in his place.  His voice, while playful, was very quiet – he cast a sidelong glance at their companions, still asleep.

“Lose your leathers and get _in_ , you shaking thing.”

She complied with rushing promptness, enchanted leather abandoned on the ground as she occupied his warm bed, disappearing altogether under his warm covers with a shuddering groan of cold.  He draped the second blanket over her and tucked it ‘neath her curling toes.  She heard him chuckle as he whispered soft goodnight, giving her foot a squeeze as he made to walk away. 

Appalled, she sent her foot jutting out to hook his ankle and give him a trip, heard him stumble with a baffled grunt.  He turned back to look at her, found her green eyes quite offended as she stared at him from sitting bolt upright in his bed, her nose and ears and cheeks still pink with cold.  They kept their voices soft, both respecting sleeping friends.

“What hurtful game is this, to tuck me in your bed and walk away?”

He balked, shaking his head vigorously as he gestured for her calm, appealing to a reason that he would not find in her.  _“Inquisitor_ , I cannot share your bed where others see.  Surely, you – “

“Why?  Are you ashamed to have others see you loving me?  Is it my mortal blood or Dalishness that embarrasses your old refinement so?  All day today, and when you courted me before, you’ve made me feel near spurned in other company.  The word _Inquisitor_ upon your lips cuts like a knife, Solas.  It is almost worse than not having love at all.”

His mouth hung open as his eyebrows shot to space.  She surely didn’t mean all this – but, she did.  He saw it in glinting in her eyes, in tears that refused falling.  Before she could blink, he was kneeling and hugging her to his leather-clad chest once again, his voice rushing in her hair.

 _“Una,_ you are more dear to me than all the world, you have _seen_ that to be true.  It is not shame that stays my loving, _vhenan_ , but concern for your station.  Posturing, perception, these are _everything._   The Herald of Andraste’s image cannot abide the love of an _apostate!”_

 _“ **Fuck** _ my image!”  Their companions woke abruptly at her yell, but neither of the elves noticed.  Her hand on Solas’ chest broke his hug as she seethed into his astounded face.  They now had a trustworthy audience of two, cringing with their eyes shut tight on the ground as they listened to her rare yet trademarked rage breaking on the Fademancer. 

“I risk my life, my fucking _soul_ for Thedas!  The lives of all my loved ones, _yours!_ Every chance I have to love you may as well be my last, and you can’t even _give_ me love for sake of what Thedas just might  _think_ of me?What does my reputation matter if I die tomorrow, Solas? You give more thought to the fickle opinion of some cocked-off noble than you give to what I need! _”_

His mouth was hanging open once again, his tortured eyes beseeching as his hand found hers upon his chest.  He sounded like a mouse.  His head was shaking over and over, absent and repeating, and it did not make her stop.  _“Vhenan,_ I – “

She slapped him fiercely, cut his soft lip against his begging teeth to silence him.  She rose to tower over him then, heedless of the cold.  “ _Enough!_ Corypheus is coming for us any moment now. You knew and told me _nothing!_   And this, this _fucking_ place, what _is_ this place?  You _knew!_ You should have _told_ me! 

You call me _Inquisitor_ as though you never bothered to learn my _fucking_ name, yet you don’t respect my authority enough to share essential _fucking_ truths!  You cannot even _love_ with honesty! And _now_ you want to say something?  Your lies of omission sicken me with burden, and weigh heavier on my shoulders than the blighted world I carry!  I won’t hear another _word!”_

She stormed into the darkness then, half-dressed and unarmed save the anchor.  The castigated god could feel her yanking at the veil in a tidal wave of rage and grief as he knelt in his crumpled bed, motionless with shock.

Realization then, and dread, he shook his head and rose with swiftness to his feet while whispering.  _“Una, no.  Not that way.”_ He hastened after her, snatching his staff from its leaning place.  The _Banaluth_ , the witch.  He was a blur and gone.

Varric sat up with a long low whistle, looking at Cole’s calm face.  “Solas is a brave man, loving her, going after her like that.  I damn near shit my pants, and she wasn’t even yelling at me.  You should’ve seen her room the other day.  The scary ones are the hardest ones to quit, though.”

A moment, then he was puzzled.  “How can you just lay there looking _peaceful,_ kid?”

A merry smile as Cole bent his knee, brought the other leg across it to twiddle his happy foot in the air.  “The words are _nothing_.  You should hear their _souls_ when they argue.  I miss it, then I don’t – I think I’m glad to never hear their fighting thoughts again.”

Varric took great joy in this observation, chuckling as he settled back down into bed.  “Glad to hear that, kid.  Find those silver linings where you can, and tell me all about it.”

“Silver linings? What?”

_Sigh._

\---

This must be how fast she’d moved after the Arlathvhen, for it took all his rushing speed to catch her shoulder in the dark.  She was not finished seething, but his grip on her would not be denied.  His voice was frustrated with urgency.  “Una, you’re right, you deserve better than anything I’ve ever had to offer you.  Strike me all you like, but _please_ , go back to camp.  I’ll sleep out here, as I’m sure you’d prefer.”

She stilled, but would not move to do his bidding.  Her voice was cold as ice, her back still to him.  They were not yet in the pulling field of _Banaluth_ , and he could not smell the witch.  “Tell me why you lied about Corypheus, about this place.”

Feeling she would stay, he took his hand away out of respect.  “I wanted to enjoy my night and morning loving you, _vhenan,_ and wanted you to think of only me _._   I tire so of bringing fear into your heart.  It was selfish, but I cannot say that I regret it. 

As for this place…I intended to go with you, to protect you.  I did not wish to frighten you unduly, when my hand could stay your risk.  I have done so before, in wicked places where the veil is thin and calls to elves, and you were none the wiser.”

That was all it took.  A hum of forgiveness in her throat, and her furor left them with unnerving quickness.  Compassionate, willfully unpredictable and swift.  Some might view her soul as sick, when to him it was all beautiful.

She turned to face him, holding that old jawbone in her hand as she looked at it and spoke.  “If you’d had your way today, Solas, my Cole would be dead.  If you would have me for your lover, I must have honesty from you.”

Oh, what his mocking brothers just might say, if they could hear the Dread Wolf’s heart thrill with the contingent mercy of a mortal woman.  “You love the Trickster God, lovely daughter of the Dales.  It is not in my nature to be forthright, but I will do my best.  Here is a start: Corypheus _is_ coming soon, and it is very late.  Let us get back to camp.”

And they went back, and she returned to his warm bed.  He fought the urge to cast a vacillating glance over his shoulder at their friends, likewise fought the urge to listen to their breaths and discern whether they slept.  He doubted it.  Though it defied his sensibilities and more to be with her in front of others, he would not deny the woman who gave everything in fixing  _his_ mistakes.

He slipped his leathers and joined her, sliding underneath her with a rustling of his robes.  She settled with her cheek upon his rising, falling chest, content at first to sleep. 

But with relaxing she became very aware of the tight bindings at her breasts.  The girdings of her loins were rent to shreds by straddling the dragon, but these had stayed intact.  She set to squirming with discomfort, shrugging off her robes to toss them ‘bove his head without a second thought as she set to the practical task of untying her wrappings.  The air was warmer now, thanks to the rocks, and she felt no need to rush.

Solas, his nervous mind made up not to show embarrassment, took it all in stride as he watched her nimble fingers on the knot.  He could see her skin was pink with pressing lines of tension from the wraps and he took over out of love, his reverent hands rising to unwind the gauze that bound her bust.  The lust that spent a lifetime riding just behind her eyes came easy as she watched his hands, and her legs folded at his sides gave him a squeeze of longing invitation.

Once he let her wrappings fall against his chest to marvel, she was completely naked and his companions were long forgotten.  His loving fingers traced red tension on her yielding breasts, healing the sting as they brushed along.

Her mossy eyes beseeched him then, near tears. His quick fingers found her face and traced her trembling lips as she spoke to him, her timid voice near sobbing.  _“Solas, please.  I am so afraid of losing.  Give me gentleness.”_

His eyes spoke for him.  The same tender gaze that used to make her weep with memories of the time he’d freed her face.  He sat up just enough to slide his forearms up the length of her back, his fingers curling o’er her shoulders as he pulled her down into the sweetest, most compassionate kiss she’d ever known, even from him.  As he sank back into the bedroll, holding her body against him, he pulled the blankets up her back, enshrining her in warmth.

She cried in silence as he kissed her quivering mouth from below, her tears falling on his eyelids and his cheeks.  One arm stayed the length of her back as the other found her folded thigh at his side, rubbing up and down her leg with comfort.  She trembled with a sob of hurting gratitude and squeezed him tight, losing her tears in the reassurance of his kiss.

He felt her crying cease, a hand found the back of her bare neck and held it, fingertips trailing up into her braided hair as he pulled back from the kiss enough to whisper ‘gainst her lips, which smiled at the tickle of his words.  _“Ma’eth, vhenan._ _The Dread Wolf will not **let** you lose.  Hamin.”_

He felt her hands search for the bottom of his robes then, and moved to help her lift them 'round his waist.  She gave the faintest coo against his mouth as his rigid body was revealed to her slickness, and she snuggled up against him with all she had, smooching with inviting nibbles at his lips. 

He would not make his gentle lover wait; a hand between her legs guided his body home to her tight invitation, and his arms resumed their protective embrace of her back as her hips pressed slow against him.  He used his lips to dampen her delighted, quiet moan.

It was as though he’d never loved this woman in his life.  She broke the kiss to focus on their pleasure, her cheek nuzzling at his shoulder as he slowly rocked his hips for both of them.  He felt her fingers curling in the neckline of his robes, felt her lashes flutter on his neck, heard her murmured moans of ecstasy as she enjoyed his unhurried body.

He brought his chin to rest atop her head as he looked down at slowly churning blankets through his lashes, his own sounds of pleasure as soft and ghosting as her own.  He whispered to the sky as his eyes closed, as he hugged her ‘round her delicate shoulders.  _“Ma’arlath, ma vhenan.”_

Their paradise endured for quite a time, tight and slipping, pushing slow.  At once he heard her throat go squeaking, felt her press her face into his chest, brought his hands to brace her hips as he buried himself to sweeten her crescendo.  Where she had been a Valkyrie before, he found his Una blushing and cooing against him now, felt her supple body tremble with much needed release as her affectionate arms squeezed with love and gratitude.

His dragging gasp made louder noise than she, his eyes rolling back with the rest of him when her narrow center spasmed tight as choking with the pleasures of his work.  His groan was music to her ears, his throbbing coming an ambrosial delight to her body.

They stilled as one, cuddling in the warm slick afterglow of making love.  His body stayed enshrined with her from head to toe and in-between as the lovers fell asleep without a word, embracing each other with such devotion as to never part again.

As for accompanying gentlemen – they both feigned sleep on their sides with their backs facing the hushed business, their expressions of mischievous embarrassment quite similar. Except, Cole blushed quite darker than his friend.  Varric’s wide-awake eyes squinted ruefully at the knapsack on the ground mere feet away, wishing he could write this down while it was fresh.


	43. In the Sunset on the Docks of Belle Marché °

“You’re _anxious_ to get back to living in the _filthy_ wilderness, aren’t you?  Sure you don’t want to spend your last hours _stealing_ something? – Ah.  I see you already have.”

The dapper mage emerged from a noisy sea of armored roiling chaos, visage full of snark as he beheld the pixie-headed elf listed on the wall behind the waystone, her only saving grace from being trampled.  Above her head hung a tangled mess of embossed metal amulets, identical, Inquisition heraldry for those who traveled under the Inquisitor’s protection.

A far-off look, nose pointed at the gloomy weather out the distant entryway, eyes in outer space.  She did not favor crowds, but she was here, a patchwork satchel full to bursting hanging at her hip.  Though she gave her broody voice, her face made no response.

“Your _shem_ Commander asked me to wait here, and I didn’t _steal._  It’s gifts for my goodbye.”  It was a partial truth.  Since yesterday, she’d started keeping what she nicked.  Her bitter tongue was headed home and had no use for Skyhold’s rules today.

A crooked scowl, arms folded ‘cross his chest.  One step closer, safer from the fray.  His tone rose high for clarity above the clamor.  “It doesn’t frighten your woodsy little elf heart, all this madness?”

That got her gaze. It came slow and reluctant, sweeping with disinterest o’er Una’s battle-armed and arguing deluge of allies before landing on his face.  She spoke, a paragon of sulking.  “They found his camp. You’re going to fight and win.  Where _I’m_ going, I’ll be safe and bored.  I’m not scared, _shemlen_.  I’m disappointed.”

Commander Cullen’s shouting rang out over faces both familiar and new, barking orders, calling for a modicum of patience.  They could not act without _her_ , he insisted.  Though the soldiers all complied, Una’s entourage of “Special Persons” were not accustomed to receiving his direction.  Some pressed him now, they wished to carve the way.  Beyond that, Veyla did not listen.

As Cullen hollered, Dorian pulled a face reproachful.  “You _honestly_ think – Oh, **_nevermind_.** ” A muttering as his hand slipped in his pocket. “Birdbrained mongrel elfkit, you‘re hardly worth the breath.  _Fasta vass,_ you’re even more _loathsome_ when you mope.”

Of a sudden he was holding something out to her.  An alabaster knight from his chess set, glaring equine eyes set with tiny gems that glinted red.  The motion in his wrist urged her to take it as he glared above her head.  _“Go on,_ you thieving reprobate.  May as well have them both.  Commemorate the first _shemlen_ you punished with your _obnoxious_ presence.”

Her ravenous quickness affirmed his suspicions.  Veyla snatched the pretty thing, turned it in her fingers to marvel without gratitude or manners.  She gave his words a thought and found them true; a wordless grin of joyous recognition at his now playful glaring face, and she stashed the thing away.  The threads that seamed her bag, already wallowing in put-upon self-pity, groaned amongst themselves as they bore the strain of one more tiny trinket.

Their brief and tender moment snapped to nothing when the waystone flashed with Una’s swift return.

Veyla found herself pressed sharp by Varric’s crossbow when they apperated, she’d been standing far too close.  He stumbled forward with an _oof_ into the waystone, glancing o’er his shoulder with a forgiving smirk at her apologetic yelp.  In the moment of her scooching ‘long the wall to clear his space, Veyla’s racing eyes saw much at once; the world _revolved_ around her Una.

She saw Varric snatch a folded note from Una’s belt, and he held it out to Veyla even as she slid away.  She watched her stand-in father’s hand make purchase at the small of Una’s back, bracing her against the swell of words and faces that broke upon her station.  She saw Dorian’s observing face light up with scandal. This bade Veyla squint betrayal at the secret Solas had so balefully and recently impressed. 

She watched Una’s shoulders roll and tighten as she barked for order with lungs ten times her size, surging towards the war room ‘cross a now-silent parting sea of urgent bodies as she shouted _“COUNSEL!”_

“Hurry up and _take_ it, Pixie!  Sparkler, send her home!”  Varric lurched and shoved the letter in her receding hand before he stormed on Una’s heels behind the witch, sounds of armed and heavy rushing drowning with their distance.  The bewildered elf looked down upon a note now crumpled as she moved against the wall – it addressed Keeper Deshanna in Una’s scrawling hand. 

She heard Dorian confirm, saw him moving towards her.  Her heart raced with adrenaline and dread she’d staved against all day, and she thought she would be sick. 

_You can’t, I can’t – I **have** to say goodbye, he isn’t **here!**_

And then he was. 

Leather dark as midnight filled her visage, dusted with sand as she had seen before.  His firm hand at her shoulder stopped her sliding further from the waystone, his touch set her soul to screaming for his help. Her desperate scrambling gawk found blue eyes stern with intense will for _something._ Though his desert kerchief rendered most of him mysterious as the night when first they’d met, defiant determination painted every feature of his upper face.

Though his unknown purpose bade him move with most tremendous haste, he took care not to catch her cherished pointed ears when he shoved the Inquisition’s heraldry o’er her tousled head. 

She heard Dorian rushing towards them, he’d stood mere feet away.  She heard Solas yelling from across the Great Hall.

“Cole, _STOP!_ ” 

She could not see through Cole’s body, but every eyeball in the Inquisition turned to watch them as her father’s voice echoed in their ears.  Even the Inquisitor gave a moment’s pause.

But they were all too late.

She saw Dorian’s hand clap and clasp to stay Cole’s leathered arm, saw him twist and flow like quicksilver away from that restraint, moved _with_ him by his bidding as though her body weren’t her own.  Dorian had no chance to yell, and she no chance to ask.  In an instant, Cole’s gloved hand slapped upon the waystone and the two of them were gone.

\---

She stumbled with a cut-short gasp, as he’d started running before she came to know the ground.  His speed shocked even her, she struggled to keep up, her shoulder burning with his pull.  She felt that if she stopped, his force would merely take her from her feet and leave her whipping in the tailwind of his rushing like a tattered flag, held fast by his clutching on her wrist.  Her bag jostled wildly against her back, threads holding urgent conference on the proposition to just give it up and break. 

The world whirled past them in a blur of sounds and smells and colors; their unimpeded dash of madness distorted all.  Her thrashing mind did not gather understanding of location ‘til she felt and heard the hard ground turn to rough-hewn, thudding wood.

The docks at Belle Marché.   The sun was setting, and the air whispering o’er the bay held salty chill.

He stopped with all abruptness and turned around to face her, sure hands came to stop her stumbling momentum at her hips.  His chest and shoulders heaved with sucking breath, as did her own, and she stared dumbfounded up at him as hot sweat trickled down his neck, disappearing ‘neath his collared coat. 

Though she was beyond bewildered, her heart was so keenly alert to his presence that it noted his firm grip at her waist with startled immediacy.   He said nothing, his breaths still loud and heavy with his rushing adrenaline.  Pressure from his hands guided his dazed charge to shift a little to the left.  Cole glanced over his shoulder at the angle of the setting sun and back at her again, as though she were a picture he was hanging on the wall.  She squinted, for the sun now found her eyes.  How could she know the way it made them glow, and that he remembered?

He was staring at them now, long and deep and wishful, determination melting into adoration on his half-shielded face.  Her confused heart fluttered, remembering his indifference and cruelty to her when last they spoke, treatment she could not easily forget, treatment wholly different from _this_.  The only word she knew for eyes like this was ‘crazy’.

“Are y-..” A puff of struggling breathing, a hard swallow and a gasp at air.  “Are you _crazy?”_

Her careening heart kicked up when his firm grip left her, and it screeched to stopping halt as one gloved finger hooked his kerchief down, revealing a soft and flirting smile set in two days’ worth of blonde and ghosting _shemlen_ stubble.  His eyes never left her as he reached into his pocket.  He pressed something light and scraggly in her hand, which still hung at her side out of shock.  His whispered voice was near to bursting with anticipation and excitement as he bade her fingers close around the thing.

_“Hold this for me.”_

Her brain screamed with the frustrated befuddlement he’d summoned in her _every_ _day_.  She unclosed her hand, and her agitated eyes snapped in consternation to the roughed-up little feather in her palm.

_“Wha – “_

His pliant touch came once again, swift and sure and gentle, and he made her weightless with the sweeping of a dancer.  The sky rushed past her eyes like she was falling backwards off a cliff, and her stomach felt the lurch of it.  She squeaked with dismay and clumsily clutched the scabbards at his back, bracing for the fall that never came.  In that instant his face and body filled her eyes, bending tall and supple down to press his mouth to hers.

Her lips were shocked and stilled, but soft for him.  His own were rough like parchment from the arid desert air, and he smelled alarmingly of blood, also harts and salty sweat.  His affectionate pursuit was chaste and simple; his arms and hands were still and sure as they held her aloft above the waist, his tongue stayed any respects it may have wished to pay.  She could feel his fervent heart pounding in his chest – or was it hers?  Her gripping at his sheaths relaxed with trust, but she was far too overcome with awe to return his gentle kiss.

And it was over.  Her blown mind cried out in protest as his lips parted from her with a slow and quiet _peck_. Pale blue eyes slid open with the sweetest smile she’d ever seen, and his tender gaze stayed with her as he guided their bodies through those sweeping motions in reverse.  His hands then fell away, left her standing there bewildered as if the kiss had never happened.

He was calmer now, and still, more like himself.  He folded his arms across his chest, at which she saw him wince and wondered why.  His eyes flitted to the side as he turned his face away, rocking on his feet, clearing his throat. 

She watched embarrassment blossom on his cheeks as he stared with feigning interest at the crates off to her left, the sun still setting at his back.  His words were tenor-pitched with nerves.

“I – …S, sorry about that.  I regretted it before, not kissing you, I wanted to.  I should have asked, but – …”

He swallowed hard and shook his head, gave a sigh of self-admonishment, looked at her frozen face with disconcerted hesitation.  “What are you thinking?”

She blinked and came unstuck, sense slowly trickled back to her as she understood his fear of her rejection.  Only then did she realize that she hadn’t kissed him back.  Also, somehow, her bag was spilled open on the dock, and she had dropped the feather and the note.  And then –

“Did you just ask me _what_ I’m thinking?  I thought you –“

He ran his fingers through his hair, took a long breath through his teeth, clenching his eyes shut tight as he tilted back his head and forced a smile.  His response was a half-chuckling, defeated groan.  “No.  Not anymore.”

She’d never understood him fully, but she knew enough to be concerned.  Her head tilted in worry as she folded her own arms, furrowing her brow.   “What _happened?_ Are you okay?”

He ignored her questions as he whispered, his head still tilted back, his eyes still clenched tight, his fingers still squeezing his scalp through his hair.  _“Please_ tell me.”

Her arms splayed beseeching at her side, voice shrill with defensive anxiety.  “I don’t _know!_   You kidnap me when everyone’s about to go to war, and you expect me to _think?!_   You were a huge **jerk** yesterday, and now you’re _kissing_ me?  Th’hell are **_you_** thinking?!”

She saw his tear trickle in the twilight, heard him sniff back snot.  He screwed up his mouth as he turned away from her.   A shuddering breath was the nearest that he came to sobbing.

She did not regret the truth she spoke, and watched him cry in silence.  She thought he cried quite nobly, the way a man should cry.  She caught a glimpse of his pale skin through the hole that rent his coat and was alarmed.  His defeated words were hoarse and quiet.

“I don’t know.  Yesterday, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.  Solas says men can do _anything._ I – I’m _sorry,_ I was sure I had it right _._ I don’t know what I’m _doing,_ I just know I can’t stand _losing_ you.”

She was _exhausted_ with not understanding, but his words of longing unglued her feet.  Short padding steps across the dock, shy arms slid around his middle from behind, her cheek pressed at his back.  Her face flushed, the tips of her ears went pink.  She _thrilled_ to touch him, wondered why it took her so long.  She felt her hug bring calm to him, and that made her happy.  She murmured with a smirk.

“You can’t stand losing me, huh?”

He spoke so simply, it could only be the truth.  “It hurts as bad as dying.”

 _That_ she could understand, or thought she did.  Her breath hitched as she fidgeted with the front of his coat, shocked at her own boldness as she watched greedy mischief blooming in her mind.  She blushed so hard it _burned._ “S’ok, I forgive you.  I’m bad at this stuff too, I guess.  I should’ve kissed you back.”

He shook his head.  She could feel his muscles squirm with guilt beneath her cheek.  “ **No,** you don’t have to.  I shouldn’t have forced you like that, it’s terrible.”

She buried her face against his back as her fingers curled around a sandy strap that sat diagonal across his chest.  Her timid whisper barely reached his ears, and her admission lit a fire in her own belly. 

_“I loved it.”_

Her heart raced with anticipation when she felt his breathing stop beneath her cheek.  They both stood rigid as she stubbornly waited him out, grinning ear to ear, her body pressing warm against the leathers on his back. 

Finally, he spoke.  His face and words _writhed_ with incredulity.

_“…You **like** me!”_

A gasping giggle lit her face with toothy smiling as he twisted in her arms and pounced her to the ground.  Though he absorbed the shock of falling with her, the dockboards rattled with a _thud_ beneath her back.  She excitedly awaited her second kiss, bringing her hands up in anticipation of wrapping them around his neck.

But he _didn’t_ lean down, and she _didn’t_ get a kiss.  His handsome eyes paid back her mischief measure for measure as he slid his knee to pin her belly.  Her smug delight gave way to playful dread as she watched his lips curl with a grin.  He stuck out his chin and moved his eyebrows with the same flirtatious threat that set her spirited heart reeling once before.  At the bottom of her field of vision, she could see him taking off his gloves.  Before she could wonder why, his sharp-tipped fingers pounced her ribs and set her screaming with helpless laughter.

His tickling was unyielding and unstoppable, _merciless,_ her attempts to tickle back or block him hopelessly denied. She wrenched herself free and went scrambling, just to have him snatch her by the ankle and drag her back for more.  His jaw was set in determination, his face a wicked grin, and he laughed as loud as she did as he hollered o’er her squalling, thrashing fit.

“You _– **C’mere!** _ You **_tricked_** me! Do you have any **_idea_** how **_embarrassing_ ** – “

She gasped with helpless laughter, tears rolling down her face as she wriggled powerless between his gripping knees.  “S-stop! I’m gonna _pee!”_

 _“ **Good!** ”_ 

He talked a big game, but her begging finally eased his assault.  His fingertips stilled upon her sides, his palms laid flat and slid behind her back.  Her ribs heaved with panting giggles ‘neath his hands, her eyes shining up into his face with pure glee.  She watched him close his eyes, watched the muscles flexing in his neck as he leaned forward and tilted his head to one side, and threw her arms around his neck when his lips made contact once again.

She returned his affections with enthusiasm then, and felt his closed lips smiling ‘gainst her own.  Her hands slid to _finally_ delight in the coarseness of his stubbled jaw, and she heard him take a fluttering breath through his nose at her touch.  He started kissing her again and again, his cheek creating rhythm ‘neath her hand with repeated breaking of the kiss and planting it anew.  She delighted at the sounds it made, at the way it made her lips tickle and go plump.  She felt admiring fingers paying homage to her pointed ear, and it was all too much – the heat that spread between her legs, the _smell_ of him, she _had_ to taste his mouth.

Her sneaking tongue against his lips caught him off guard and broke his repetition, and his mouth eagerly pressed her back with need.  He slid his tongue against her own and _moaned,_ and it was _wonderful,_ she could feel the vibrations in his chest, and _oh,_ he tasted so _good_ , his mouth was hot and wet and _sweet_.  It made her want to throw her legs around him, but his pinning knees against her hips would hear nothing of it.

She gripped his rough cheeks and suckled lewdly at his tongue, and _oh,_ he moaned again, and this one _darker_ – but then, as quickly as he’d anted to her passion once before, he broke the kiss and pulled his face away. 

Olive eyes snapped open to behold his glistening mouth, his pale cheeks as red as hers must surely be.  He was biting at his lower lip.  His gaze was intense, apologetic, adoring, _and,_ she noted with triumph, filled with _lust._ Her heart raced with excitement at the newness of her conquest; in that moment his eyes made her a woman, and she knew she wielded power now that she had only dreamed of.  She wanted more, she wanted all of it.  Right here, right now, in the sunset on the docks of Belle Marché.

They were both panting and trembling.  His voice was airy, breathless.  His breath tickled her face, it made her miss his mouth.

“I can’t – Veyla, if you kiss me like that, I…I don’t understand myself enough to stop.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she dragged her fingers on his fantastic scruffy jaw. She saw his eyes flutter closed, saw his head warring over whether it should pull away from or towards her exploring stroke.

“You don’t like it?”

An astonished titter in his throat as he opened his eyes once more, his eyebrows asking her if _she_ was crazy. His blush grew darker as his eyes flitted to the side, he turned his head away.

“Of course I _like_ it, it’s – you’re _incredible._   But it _scares_ me.  I’ve never felt it, and I don’t-…I don’t trust it.  I’ve read some, but not enough.”

She was openly puzzled then, she gave his shoulder a playful little shove and squinted at his face.  She could’ve sworn he was _years_ older than her.  “How old _are_ you, Cole?”

“Ah-...” He gave his neck a sheepish rub as he slid from looming over her, sitting with his back to her.  She heard him curse under his breath.  He looked over his shoulder at her face, absolutely flustered.  “It’s been – a couple months? I guess?  I mean, I’ve _been_ here for years, but that’s different.”

The magic was all gone, then.  Flat eyes matched her flat voice as she sat up to glare at him.  “What.  Months?  I’m being serious, Cole.  I’ll throw you off the docks if you confuse me one more time.”

Recognition slowly dawned on him, and she watched as his face took its time in morphing from confusion to sheer terror.  He whispered.

“You don’t know.  I thought for sure they’d tell you.”

 _“Ugh,_ **what?”**

He surged to his feet and started pacing.  His voice hiked up a pitch as he gestured wildly in the dark, ranting like an outraged lunatic.  _“_ Varric runs his mouth about what I am to _dogs_ in the _street!_ He actually **did** , you know, when we were shopping, he told a dog I _smell funny_ ‘cause I just became a human and I don’t know how to _bathe_ yet.  He knows I _like_ you, we talked about it _all day,_ how could he **_do_** this to me?  **Fuck!** ”

She listened, growing just a bit afraid of him, numb with disappointment at the dark turn in their evening.  She drew her knees to her chest as she watched him raging.  The wetness of his kiss was growing cold in the night air, as was the rest of her. 

He sighed with disgust as he stopped his pacing, hands coming up to his chest.  He _said_ he couldn’t read her mind, but she watched from behind as he unfastened his weapons to remove his coat.  She said nothing.  His voice was curt, a tone she now regretted forgiving before.

“It’s getting late.  Get your stuff.  I need to take you home.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she scooted to her things, stuffing _stupid_ crap back in her _stupid_ bag and trying not to sob.  She was a woman now; she would not let him get away with this again.  She thought of watching Una standing up to Aaran by the campfire, and her voice came hard and sure.

“Whatever you are, Cole, you’re an _asshole._ ”

“No.  _Varric_ is an asshole.”  He shoved his coat onto her shoulders, and she snatched it off and threw it on the ground.  They locked angry eyes as he stood bare-armed in front of her, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Don’t get pissed at _Varric_ for whatever-the-hell it is you were too hallashit to say yourself!”

“I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!  All right?  I didn’t _know!_   He just _did it!_ He put his crossbow in my hands, he let me try to kill the man who killed me first, and it did _this_ to me!”

She sprang to her feet and shoved him, trampling his coat.  “Don’t stand there and yell at _me_ about this weird crap!  I thought you _liked_ me!”

He set his jaw and stared at her with tears glinting in his eyes, his lips began to tremble.  “I do, I _love_ you.  But it doesn’t matter, not now.  I thought you knew, and now it’s too late to tell you.  I _would_ have.”

She fantasized about hefting him by the belt and tossing him into the bay.  The word ‘love’ was the only thing that stayed her hand.  Well, the puppy eyes helped, too.  She snarled with impatience.

“Tell me _now_ , you stupid jerk.”

He walked to the crates at her side and slumped to sitting, rubbing at his forehead with his fingers as he calmed back down.  “I was a spirit, I could read people’s pain, help them heal.  It was all I did, all I knew.  Now I’m human, and I don’t know what to do.  I keep thinking I know, but I don’t.”

She wasn’t dumbfounded; far from it.  It was the most sense his words had made all night, and she accepted all of it.  She sat down next to him, left ample space.  Her wounded heart peeked out from behind its wall to prod at him.

“Are you dangerous?”

A shrug, his voice forlorn.  “I can be, if I want.  When people try to hurt my friends.”

“…Then, I don’t understand.  Did you think I’d be scared of you?”

He was picking at a hangnail as he glared down at his hands.  “I’m a freak, you didn’t know.  I feel like I tricked you.”

She scoffed at him and scooted just a little closer, giving him a flirty nudge to lighten up his mood.  “You think _you’re_ a freak?  I’ve got one foot way bigger than the other, _and_ I was the shortest elf at the clansmeet by _inches, and_ I cry all the time like a little kid.”

She held her bare feet out at leg’s length for his inspection, wiggling her toes as she peered smirking and expectant at his face.  She watched his eyes flit over her feet, watched a warm and loving smile take over him as he lifted gentle eyes to search her face. 

“Your feet are cute.  And you don’t cry all the time, Veyla.  You’re the happiest person I’ve ever met.  And there’s nothing wrong with being short…I like it.  It makes you fun to kiss.”

She leaned over and pecked the corner of his mouth, and his smile got even bigger.  There were still tears on his face, and she reached up to wipe his cheek. 

“I don’t feel like you tricked me. I always _knew_ you were a weirdo.  It’s part of why I like you.  Don’t yell at me, and we’ll just stay together!  Take me home, Cole, and stay with me.”

Longing in his eyes again, and his hand came up to ghost against her ear.  “I want to Veyla, but I’m _human_.  Your people _really_ won’t let me.”

She gave him a wink and her most charming smile.  “Once we tell my Keeper what you are, she’ll be thrilled for you to stay.  I promise.”

They gathered up her things.  He wouldn’t leave until he found his crumpled little feather in the dark.  Her bag broke five steps out, and they had to stop and gather everything again.  They piled it in his coat, he tied it up and carried it in his hand, a loving arm squeezing her against his side for warmth as they walked together in a jubilating daze back to the waystone.


	44. Bravo!

He’d grown accustomed to Una’s naked skin; he hardly could recall the way her Vallaslin once looked.  And so, it was a jarring thing, watching disapproving creases creep across the Keeper’s mark’d face as she beheld his heart’s desire.  Protective tension set dentition aching, his cautious and unwelcome human eyes defiant in the trespass of their wary staring.

It was the time of evening when all living things are loath to welcome company, that lounging easy period twixt supper and repose.  His ears, in only one dimension now, perceived the ritual nighttime work of Dalish huntsmen:  The _schrick_ , _schrick, schrrrick_ of ironbark blades a’sharpening, the twang of testing freshly waxen bowstrings, the quick and plucking sigh of loosening the same.  The firepit crackled, unfettered halla shuffled in their hay with soft and sleepy chortling.  Though this wordless music was new to Cole he knew on listening the timeless age of it, their way of life a treasured thing in all the world.

Even as the air sung with their work, every fire-lit tattooed face was staring at them both.  _All_ of them were scowling.  He knew now with certainty that his sweet young lover’s promise of acceptance had been based in naught but hopeful fantasy.  Her wrong and wishful thinking touched his heart.  He longed to hold her now, to kiss her lips and whisper comforts for them both.  He knew that _here,_ he couldn’t.

Sharp crinkling racket only seemed to deepen their offense, his poor Veyla fussing anxiously to somehow form the wadded messy letter back into respect.  She pulled the wrinkles taut across her leg and worked the paper as one does to shine a shoe. 

Eyes stayed downcast as she held her crumpled offering aloft.  The Keeper did not take it right away, and in the time that stretched he felt his Veyla’s gentle heart sinking ‘neath the very ground with dread. The burning need to comfort her set man and residue of spirit aching just alike.

Finally, the Keeper’s old hands took the note.  She read it and said nothing for a time.  Eventually, she spoke.  Cole found Deshanna was a fabled “woman of few words”; no person in his life to date could make that claim.

 _“Len'alas lath'din._   In all you do, you shame me.”

And then, the shrouded arrow of the Keeper’s scrutiny found him through her eyes.  Cole’s eyes returned the gesture, body and mind at ease without, armed and anxious within.  He moved to save the cowering girl he loved with words.  Through all of it, she stayed passive as a beaten dog.

He did not hesitate to speak.  He spoke half-truths with the jurisdiction of his status, his tone firm but polite, his known-to-boggle syntax flawless, courtly, and complete _._ If Varric heard it he would rise and clap, and cry _“Bravo!”_

An Elvish request for hospitality rolled like velvet from his tongue, earning Cole a skosh of favor.  Were he present, Cole’s patient teacher would most surely give the smuggest little nod.  As it stood, his fluency stayed glaring Dalish hunters from peppering his _shemlen_ mug with arrows.  This was acknowledgement enough for him.

 _“Andaran lasa atish’an_ , Keeper Istimaethoriel. I am Cole Rutherford, of Una Lavellan’s prime retinue.  My Lady sends her warmest greetings, and I, her favored colleague, as an envoy.  I am most pleased to meet you.”

She responded with the coolness that behooved her station when faced with such diplomacy.  _“Andaran atish’an,_ Cole Rutherford.  If you will surrender your weapons, you are welcome for the moment.”  

The scruples in her eyes did not agree with invitation, yet he held her to it with a charming, smiling nod.

 _“Ma serannas,_ Keeper _._ By all means.” He felt a presence suddenly behind him then, his mind paying respects to stealth as he disarmed with clinking, creaking ease. 

Cole turned to make his offering to the elf at his back. His heart balked for but a moment at rare and lovely olive eyes, the very hue he’d offered to the sun just hours before.  The elf-man matched Cole’s tallness inch for inch, and seemed quite close to him in age.  Though Cole could no longer _feel_ the shining in a mage, he’d come to know that certain mystery in people’s eyes who plucked the Veil.  

It likewise took no mindreading to recognize disdain.  He surrendered his weapons and turned back to the Keeper, preferring the skepticism _she_ bore him to utter hateful harm.  Besides, matters were pressing.

“My Lady extends regretful apologies for Veyla’s unexplained departure, for continued secrecy in nature, and doubly so for her delayed and poorly timed return this evening.”

The elf at his back hadn’t left, Cole felt him seething as he spoke.  Deshanna was persistently displeased.  She gestured for the two to follow as she spoke admonishment, and they complied.  He did not look at Veyla, for fear the way she lit his eyes would give his heart away to their untrusting audience.

“Your Lady asks much.  A Keeper must tend, Cole Rutherford, yet by Your Lady’s bidding I am pressed with the demands of treaties and negotiations.  She calls her unity imperative for reasons she will not explain.  Though she was once my First, I find faith lacking with the burden of her secrecy.

Now, Your Lady sends a _shemlen_ bearing meaningless apologies for this missing child; we have searched for days.  Your Lady dares to write and beg me stay this wayward girl her punishment.  But tell me, Cole Rutherford.  Does Your Lady offer me an _explanation?”_

A flash fire lit his eyes before he pulled it back to better fuel resolve.  With iron will, he bade his screaming brain desist in conjuring Veyla’s sobbing cries of hurt.

_Stop.  I will **not** let it happen._

It worked.

The Keeper took a seat beside the fire that seemed completely hers.  He chose his words most carefully as he took a low, deferent seat in front of her.  The hating elf who looked like Veyla just _refused_ to leave; he was standing by the Keeper’s side, arms folded in an open glare.  He’d passed off Cole’s weapons somewhere ‘long the way.

“The Inquisition had a pressing need for young Veyla’s nimble swiftness, Keeper Istimaethoriel.”

The eyes of every elf for miles burned on his person like hot coals, unmoved by his offered explanation.

“For the good of Thedas, My Lady could not give word to her cause.  It is a burden of her station, The Inquisitor must guard her purpose close.  With remorse, revered Keeper, even from you.”

Her patience snapped then, and she seethed venom down at him.  “The Arlathvhen under _Your Lady’s_ protection was not concealed enough for five short words of honesty?”

He froze in his lies, his eyes tracked for but a moment, and the wise Keeper watched him falter with a scowl.  Cole had no _idea_ what an Arlathvhen was, but he knew immediately that it could cost him everything.

His scrambling mind fell back on an appeal to endearing empathy, the way he’d watched dishonest lovers do in the wee hours of morning, shivering smallclothed in muddy streets outside their own locked doors.  As often as he’d watched it, he’d only seen it _work_ once, but he felt it was the only weapon in his catalogued arsenal of human moments that afforded him a chance.

A tired and earnest chuckle as he smiled so hard it shut his eyes and bade his eyebrows lift.  He shook his head and rubbed his shaggy hair, still full of sand.  It tinkled on his shoulders and the ground.  He spoke jovially through grinning lips.  He watched as the male elf's olive eyes scanned the letter in the Keeper's hands.

“Aha-ha, forgive me, honored Keeper!  For all her fondness, the Inquisitor hardly tells me anything.  I ah, I don’t know what else to say!  She goes warring as we speak, and yet she sends me _here_ tonight.  I told her it was late, but she insisted.  I wonder sometimes at how paranoid she is.  Still, I am here, and I _am_ sorry for the hour and my cluelessness.”

The Keeper’s face seemed to soften, just a little.  _His_ did not.  His voice was cold, hard, flat, _hateful_.  Deep for an elf, much deeper than Cole’s.  “ _Enough._   Tell me what you are, and why you’re here.”

It shocked his face from acting.  He heard Veyla squirm unhappily at his side as he blinked bewildered up into eyes that _looked_ like hers, but very much were not.  “I – What?  I’m sorry?”

The mage’s curling scowl would not deign in repeating.  Squinting eyes demanded words, and _now._    Veyla gave the softest little peep of protest at Cole’s side.  

“Thalis, he isn’t – “

There was a glimpse of softness in his voice.  “ _Da’lenlin,_ be _still.”_

The Keeper’s eyes were curious as they explored Cole’s face with new concerns.  “Cole Rutherford _,_ you will answer my First.”

All eyes were on him, still.  His lungs tightened with anxiety at revealing himself so openly and – _What_ was going on?  Solas laid his hands upon him, called him pure a man, he _was,_ with pain and love and screaming deafness, held to each mistake and slip of tongue with merciless _remembering_ he could no longer best.

His diplomatic countenance was gone, his hands gesturing frustration without his consent as he glared up at this _Thalis._  

“Look.  I already _told_ you who I am and why I’m here.  I’m one of Una’s closest friends, she asked me to bring Veyla home, so here I am. Your Keeper welcomed me, I gave my blades to **you.**   So what’s your problem?”

“You are lying.  If you know Una as you say, then you know the mages of Clan Lavellan are far from blind.  Tell me what you are, or _leave.”_

Cole felt hate become a threat with the man’s words, and he would not take it sitting down.  He rose slow and deliberate to his feet, arms seemingly relaxed at his sides, but poised for anything.  His jaw jutted, eyes glinting with defiance.

Locked eye to eye with Thalis, Cole’s heart came to know hate and rivalry.  Though he’d killed countless many, he’d never felt like _this._   He lost all grasp on sense and reason in his loathing.  He _spat_ his words, lip curling in contempt as he looked Thalis up and down derisively.   _Psh._ He’d killed men _twice_ his size and strength with less effort than shitting.

 _“No._ It’s not your _place_ to question a member of the Inquisition, and it is not your _business.”_

Standing here, in the middle of the campground of one of the strongest Dalish clans, it was a _very_ stupid thing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Da'lenlin_ : Little blood (feminine) child; little sister.


	45. Because of Her

“Our waypoints behave strangely there, none of them will stick.  I sent my best people, Inquisitor.  We have not heard another word beyond initial telling of his presence.”

Quiet thick enough to slice and spread on toast, though the war room had never been this crowded.  She leaned forward with her hands upon the table, mossy eyes burning holes in the pinned and tattered map.  Though she was numb to it, Solas held supportive pressure at her lower back once more, and for good reason:  A blood-red pin was glinting in the uncharted location where she’d called her folk together less than a fortnight past.

Gears were grinding.  Her stomach roiled, her ears rang screeching with denial.  It could not be coincidence – but _how?_  How could Corypheus have known?  Una’d kept it secret from _everyone_ , except for Fen’Harel.  Her loving mind refused to doubt him; though he was dubious, even now she felt sincere and shocked remorse emanating from his knowing touch.

What was Corypheus _doing_ there?

“I understand.  What more can you tell me?”  So broadsided was she, Una did not recall she’d asked this question two times prior to now, and both times received responses disappointing in their lack of substance.  Her body stayed there, tense and clenching in the candlelight above the map, blind to all except the pin that pricked and left her pleading with the truth.  She feared more for her people than she’d ever feared for Thedas, and could hardly listen to a word.  Her mind could not make _sense_ of this.

Spymaster and Diplomat exchanged heavy knowing looks at her redundancy, Commander took the lead.  With a whispering of armor he mirrored her posture from across the oaken table, his gaze searching her strained face before moving to share the object of her focus. 

“Inquisitor, we have consulted with your specialists since the wee hours of the morning.  We thought, perhaps, another _eluvian._ According to our sources there are no temples here, no recorded artifacts of note.  His purpose here is mystery to us.  Perhaps it is as simple as a camp out of the way, unseen and hidden.  Regardless, I say we act _now_.  Transit will be a factor.”

Solas offered counsel at her side, his public hand unflinching on her back.  It was not the time for scandal, but yes, others had noticed with surprise.  It was _very_ unlike both of them.

“Inquisitor, if I may.”

Where she oft times had resented his self-satisfied advice, her flailing mind now clutched his somber speaking like a lifeline. Her head whipped to the side and she stared over her shoulder at him, her soul ablaze with dread. 

“The Commander is correct.  Those woods boast a captivating history, _vhenan,_ but the place has no inherent powers to exploit.”

His words spoke one truth, his private eyes another. 

_The Arlathvhen._

It was a span of only seconds.  Her eyes searched his, beseeching him in terrified denial.  His austere gaze held fast and forced the truth.  Gathered companions impatiently observed the silent intimations of the elven lovers.  Before their secrecy could vex, Una slammed her fists on the map and pushed away with rushing will to act.

“ **All** of us will go.  Right now.”

In moments, she was shoving through the door with a resounding _BANG!_   Her counsel and her exhausted, sandy retinue stormed behind her with a jostling of arms, save one who was not here.  Josephine rushed to Una’s right as she made for the bustling Great Hall.  Her left was steadfastly occupied.

“Inquisitor, see reason!  The travel magic will not _work!_  It will take you _days_ of fieldwork to reach him.  Wait for him to make a move!”

Una bellowed at her fellows in the Great Hall to arm and join her as she yanked a gray carven stone from a pouch at her hip, clenching it in her determined fist. She was making her way outside now, to the waystone in the center of their sprawling courtyard. 

 ** _“_ INQUISITION! **TO ARMS! TO ME! _”_

The response was immediate and vast, a surging of the most elite, determined force in all of Thedas.  Wardens, Templars, soldiers hailing from across the world, the Chargers and the members of her entourage; all of Skyhold rushed to heed her bidding.  The air _roared_ with the power of her Inquisition.

Her people kept the call to arms alive as swift and agile feet swept down sanded icy steps into chill and shining night.  Her speedy words vibrated with her footfalls, offering no explanation to the fretting diplomat that pressed her heels.

“Josephine, I will buy you three minutes to evacuate civilians to the scullery.  After that, _anyone_ at ground level or higher will be riding into hell with me.  Go quickly.”

With that, Josephine turned and went screaming down the hall to Mother Giselle. 

The god rushing at her side knew what his Una meant to do, and he would _not_ stand for it.  _“Vhenan,_ this is **madness**. Conveyance of that magnitude will drain you beyond helplessness!”

She reached the waystone as he spoke.  As if by design, a soldier charged with just this task dropped a clanking crate of brackish lyrium at her feet.  These cases peppered Skyhold’s grounds; several men were running through the fray, shoving sloshing bottles into open hands.

It must have cost a _fortune._ One fluid ounce served as a normal dose.  She’d had these specially designed, wide-mouthed bottles cast of metal, lord _knows_ how much their volume was, a dozen ounces, maybe more.  They clinked now throughout the grounds.  She hooked three on her belt, clenched her teeth as she responded with firey defiance to her lover’s sharp concerns.

“I have not spent bloody sweaty months assembling this force for _nothing,_ Solas!  I mean to go to war, and I _will_ have my army.  If I must carry every man myself, **_so be it.”_**

He grabbed her arm and yanked her close, hissing in her ear.  That threatening tone he took with her before an act of violence, his very aura bent to dominate and restrain.  “Fool, _heed me_ , you do not _need_ them! Your stubbornness will see you _dead_ before your feet have touched the ground!  I can protect you from Corypheus, but _this_ – ” 

Her aura surged with insolence.  Una jerked her arm away from the seething god as if he were a clinging toddler, ignoring his outraged snarl.  She planted her foot high and yanked herself to stand upon the steepled waystone, Dalish soles gripping slanted granite with an artful grace. She perched tall and slender, holding her elven keystone high above her head. 

All eyes were upon her.  She scanned the gathered force, her countenance was grim.  She boomed to address her roiling sea of righteous killers, magic augmentation caused her voice to bounce and rise and swell.  Even as she yelled of fearless valor, she was sick near vomiting with dread.  Her stomach flip-flopped inside out back in the war room, and could not seem to right itself.

“Members of the Inquisition, fearsome warriors all!  Hear me!  Where I go now, I do not know what hells await.  Though my heart breaks with love o’er every life we lose this night, I leave my fears hanging o’er the hearth of Skyhold as I go hunting for the head of a false god, and bid you do the same!  Blessed are the Peacekeepers, for we alone bring justice to the wicked!  _Are you with me?”_  

A roaring answer of fidelity threatened avalanche with might, the frozen ground cracking with a tidal force of stomping armored feet.  Adrenaline of masses set the very air alight, made her blood run thin and full of air.

_“Make ready…!”_

A thunderous song of weapons ringing ‘gainst their sheaths, bowstrings creaking half-cocked and sure, heady screams of violent war.  Shields banging with a rhythm, deadly mages pulling stinging static to the skin and teeth of every soul. 

She heard a clinking as resentful Fen’Harel snatched a bottle from the crate below her feet.  She felt her lover’s grasp tight and high upon her calf, heard him growl with rancor at the _foolishness_ of this.  His power surged into her very bones, causing her aura to swell and expand in ways she hadn't felt since the closing of the Breach.  Her anchor glowed with searing power against the keystone she clenched white-knuckled in the air above her head.

**_“BRACE!”_ **

Sinew rippled as she punched her radiating fist into the stone beneath her feet.  Travel magic crashed in a whipping wave across the grounds of _Tarasyl'an Te'las,_  pulling essence from her like a yanking, sapping leech.  She felt her body weaken near dying, maybe past it, even as the strongest mage to walk the earth held her fast and fed her everything he had.

\---

All was silent.  Never had an army stood and gaped like this, in unison, bracing and bewildered in _complete and utter_ darkness.  The stench of burning cauterized their noses, and they could hear only each other.  For their eyes: _N_ _othing._

She only knew her life because of wretching.  She trembled prostrate on the barren, trampled earth as her stomach purged its contents.  Her body ached with more than falling, flesh melting from her bones with aural hissing smoke.  _Venuth_ had been the plaything of a child. 

The very air oppressed her, demanded her surrender to nightmares and despair.  She could not see the ground before her face.  Some mage off to her right sent a massive ball of blinding, fizzing light rocketing above their heads. She dumbly fumbled for one of the bottles at her hip as she mustered every effort in the raising of her head. 

Light glinted dull and dirty in the ashen air upon the armor of her followers; all else was outright blackness, impervious to light.  Eyes struggling to see beheld a frayed and blood-stained rope-end in the char beside her hand.  Two, three – _dozens._ Icy metal pressed her lips as she chugged thirstlessly at salty life, her mind struggling to work at what she saw, her pleading stomach threatening to spill its savior, an entire legion _needing_ her to find her feet.

An urgent voice off to the left.  Cullen.  “Inquisitor, are you intact?”

Magic spilled into her sagging aura with a heaving whine of protest, the Anchor reclaimed brightness in her hand.  She heard baleful gulping at her back, a tongue smacking in disgust, a quiet elven curse word meant especially for lovers when they’re very, _very_ cross.  She croaked a hoarse response to Cullen as she forced herself to stand. 

“I am.”

A soldier’s voice she did not recognize, but cared for just the same.  Confused, but not afraid, and not shy to speak to her.  His question calling from behind made her swell with pride.  “Inquisitor, is this the Fade?”

Still, her benevolent response was hoarse and croaking.  “It is not.”

“Then what _is_ this barren place?”

“I do not know, my love.” Her voice grew louder then. “Tell me what you see.”

Her people clamored, feedback pouring sharp and clear from all directions, eyes adjusting in unison to the glaring light.  “Your Worship, I find a waystone here!”

“Yes, I have one here! Wrapped with rope!”

And then, close, right in front of her – “The same is here, Inquisitor. The thing is hellish black, like this blighted place.”

_“Show me.”_

Her stomach heaved as steps lurched forward in the wading soot, feeling rough-hewn rope beneath her feet.  Her men parted as though a goddess walked among them.  She passed in a dozen deep.

"Here, Your Worship."  

Her palms and arms went black with powder as she brushed to clear the ash that shrouded markings on the onyx stone.  Even as her mind screamed white with blindness at the symbols ‘neath her fingertips, she heard Solas call out across her ocean of beloved men, his voice grave and clear.

“Inquisitor.  I find the symbol of Clan Sabrae here.”

And hers of Clan Tillahnnen.  She did not understand.

She turned in a perplex'd daze to find the waystone by which she brought her army here, the same one she’d commissioned to bring her people all together.  Ne’er before had waystones been used to call an Arlathvhen; it was always done on foot, a grand affair, a gathering years in the making.

She’d had no _time_ for that.  The need for unity was urgent in the face of changing Thedas. It was pressing, it was life or death and _now._ She’d only given access to the waystone mages, and they passed it to the Keepers on the morning of the clansmeet.  The Keepers brought their people hence in small groups throughout the early morning, as a magic such as this could only carry a scant dozen at a time, unless a bolstered mage of great strength spent herself near death as Una had tonight.

Numb fingers left prints of soot upon her curs'd granite portal, her blood slowing to freshly churned butter.  She clutched the keystone in her hand, felt the ropes beneath her feet, and knew then what they meant.

_“LISTEN TO ME!  THEIR ARMY HAS SPLIT FORCE, AND SO SHALL WE!  GRAB THE ROPE NEAREST YOU! **NOW!** ENTOURAGE, TAKE EACH OF YOU A LEAD!  MORRIGAN, DORIAN, VARRIC, TO ME!"_

A cacophony of clamoring as her army rushed to comply.  She moved within a nightmare as she snatched the first rope she could grasp up from the blighted earth.  There were **_so_ _many,_  **more than she had officers to allocate.Solas placed his hand upon her back, wordless and resigned, his power coming into her again, not weaker, but not pure.

It was a rhythm that would haunt her dreams and waking thoughts for life.  She’d pull rope taut, she’d spend herself upon the waystone and send those men to fight and die, she’d drop that rope and pluck another from the ground, all in hellish wasteland built of blackened death and ash, the charred and gone remains of her hopes for the future, for her people. 

Yank, pulse, release, death.  Yank, pulse, release, death.  Each rope made her sicker, weaker, deader than the last.

In this futile ritual that set her hands a’bleeding, cracking heart and bones and soul, she came to know utter and absolute despair that only Fen’Harel had known before. Tears of helpless knowing carved pale rivers in the black soot of her face, and still she soldiered on, her gestures less than nothing in the gaping void of her mistake.  In light of loss, the very fate of Thedas meant  _nothing_ to her now.

The surging army she’d amassed.  The artifacts.  The bending of her station towards a lifelong dream of unity.  The vallaslin.  Alliances and treaties and time travel and _butchery_ and more. 

All had been for **nothing.**   Corypheus had come upon her people in the dead of night, slaughtering the Dalish to extinction while they slept.

_Because of her._


	46. Chum Beneath His Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No time to edit, got to dash - but hate to keep you waiting days after I drop something like genocide on you!

Education in the form of aural impact sent his tailbone slamming in the dirt to tune of bowstrings pulling taut, teaching him that confidence and skill aren’t always _quite_ enough.  Cole came so near to planting ass-end in the fire, the smell of scorching hair pricked Veyla’s nose. 

No sooner did Cole tumble than he set to right himself, eyeing his assailant with tight-lipped resentment as he clenched his creaking fists and braced for more.  Though his stubbornness made less than half sense in the context, his complicated heart refused to speak the truth or leave his newfound lover’s side. 

Veyla shed her abject mantle in a bid to stay her brother’s hand, darting up from grov’ling ground to stand between the warring men.  Arms and legs splayed wide as she raised her timid voice to yell.  “Brother, _quit!_ He’s – “

The blaring horn blow of the waystone lookout interrupted her appeal, a warning peal cut short and not so far away.  The air once wrought with tension flooded now with dread as all eyes left the trifling fireside conflict to squint towards darkest east. 

All was happening at once around her now, and madness.  A trumpeting response from north and south, three short bursts from the west, a deafening and final rally in camp to summon sleeping clansfolk to the fire.  She could _hear_ the massive unseen force that blustered towards them in the dark, and it would break on them in moments.

Barriers went whipping through the air. Cole pressed Veyla with his back as he cried out to casting Thalis, _“Arm me! Now!”_   The Keeper’s pack of hounds stalked low and snarling toward the treeline from the sleeping reach of camp, ears pinned o’er jowls that snapped with threat.  Dalish archers fell in behind the beasts with the flowing grace of wind, and some elf threw Cole’s weapons at his feet.  He snatched them up in a flurry of clinking buckles.

As he stepped away to arm, Veyla saw the gentlefolk of her clan stumbling wild-eyed towards the fire, some clutching groggy children.  She saw Cole’s eye catch them, too, and watched his clenching face go sallow as he pulled his final strapping tight against his chest.

Through all of this, Deshanna’s voice rang clear as she surged to her feet, pointing west where squalling halla now gave flight with noisy rushing through the underbrush.  “Thalis, take the children to the falls!” 

Cole jerked her by the shoulders and sent her head whipping – she realized now she’d been standing frozen in shock, her ears transfixed on whatever hells her people now loosed arrows at behind her, and there was _screaming_ , she smelled burning flesh and trees.  She saw her brother lead her people to the west, a group of hunters flanked her quaking, sobbing, rushing clan.

His voice was loud and rough, he didn’t sound like Cole; as she gaped into his face, she hardly recognized him for his gritting strength.  “ **Veyla!**   I can’t carry you, you have to **move!** ”

Something hit her back then, _hard_.  It was wet and hot, it sent her stumbling against him with a cry.  He spun and scruffed and tossed her, sent her fumbling headlong towards the escaping entourage.  _“Don’t look back, just **RUN!”**_

She heard his weapons singing 'gainst their sheaths, and then a hellish screech that iced her blood and set her eardrums throbbing with a tinny pain.  She ran after her brother in the dark as she’d been told, but cast one fleeting glimpse over her shoulder to know the maker of that _awful_ sound.

She saw dogs and hunters mutilated on the bloody churned-up ground of camp, the living fighting men with glinting, steepled helmets – and this massive charred and flowing _thing_ where she’d been standing just moments before.  Wicked blackened claws, eyes like holes of fire, burning right at _her_.  It meant to come for _her._   That _sound_ again, and as she watched and ran she lost her bladder.  In that moment, she saw Cole take the monster down like a blighted beast, fighting with the blurred and shining grace of legend.

Scruffed once more, the hunter pulling up the rear of their retreat hurled her bodily into the rushing mass of helpless elves that stole away towards safety in the night.

\---

Though they fought like haunting wisps and took many Venatori with them, sheer numbers bested all. The noble elves with which he made this stand were fast becoming chum beneath his feet; the very ground was treacherous with lumped and stinking massacre.  Though no stranger to dancing murder in a field of corpses, to have so many of them friendly tried his heart beyond despair.

He made his mind to leave them when he saw that magic fire was setting green and dampened woods aflame in all directions, spreading fast around the camp. 

_I’m sorry, friends. If I die, I can’t help._

Cole felled one last Venatori and went rushing to the west, abandoning the losing battle with a flurry of path-clearing blades.  He was gone before the last Dalish warrior fell, too fleeting to be followed.

He set to picking off the chasers, then, that pressed the small escaping group.  He moved like death among the stalking bastards in the still of night, leaving every would-be killer of the Dalish children bleeding out face down among the leaf litter.

Hours passed this way.  One of countless Venatori men fell dead at Cole’s swift bidding, and when he went to run for more he stopped – a whimpering to the right.  He kept his weapons drawn as he crept forward crouching, ears pricking at tears now, threat softening to dread and _oh, mercy, it’s a child, and he saw everything._

Cole was bad with aging children, though he did adore the few he’d ever met in passing – the boy was young, and he was squeezing a pot-bellied puppy to his chest as he trembled in a hollow log.  His hair was full of spider webs, his face was smeared with tears and dirt.  He rocked and sobbed against his furry little friend, trying _so_ hard to be quiet.

Steel rang as he sheathed and took a knee; startled eyes gaped wide and froze with terror at Cole’s face.  Though he was covered head to toe in gore, his blonde hair absolutely _shocking_ with it when he lacked his hat, he spread his arms and coaxed with all the whispering gentleness he knew.  Distracted eyes were ever scanning for a threat in cursed woods.

 _“Shhh, da’len_.  I know I _look_ scary, but I’m good. I promise.  Do you know Veyla?”

Just staring, not a nod.  The terrified elfkit braced his back against the wall of his hideout, and Cole tried a playful smile.

“You _do,_ I’m on to you.  She’d _never_ let you keep that puppy to yourself.  Come here, little one, and let me carry both of you.”

“Kin we go home?”

His shaking squeak of a whisper broke Cole’s heart, even as the warm and frightened imp pressed against his blood-slicked leathers.

“No, _da’len._   But I will keep you safe.”

He plucked the child soundlessly from the ground into his cherishing embrace, cradling his head against his shoulder as he rushed into the dark. 


	47. Da’enasal °

Exhaustion bade Cole fall unwilling to his knees with jerking breath and startled yelps for two.  He sat back rump to heel and knelt in boggy earth beside the roaring, spilling crest he’d toiled through endless bloody burning night to reach.

He’d hoped to sit would be enough, but it was not; his human body failed his drive and sent him spilling to his side with a jarring _thud_ that rattled teeth and stole again his air.  Still he clutched his timid charges to his heaving chest, even as his eyes slid closed.  They were alone.

Never in his time among the living had Cole fought and rushed so long, so far, so desperately.  So tired was he, he could not find the smile to answer whining lapping at his blood-streaked chin.  It took a full three minutes mustering to force his arm to move and search the potion pack that rode his hip.

Empty.  In his rush to snatch at love, he consciously neglected stock.  A ghosting curse twitched his lips, his lungs too tired to give it sound.  He rolled onto his back and felt the misty sky rest heavy on his face.

He hadn’t eaten since midmorning hardtack in the canyon, and before that, what?  Half a traveler’s loaf amid a day of heartsick fasting.  Chafing sand gnawed every corner of his sweat-pruned body; he felt clammed and sick against the sodden earth.  His knitted lung complained with every breath, and only now he came to recognize the scathing pain of wounds across his back.  The rage demon, his mind recalled.  He’d earned those scars _hours_ ago, to keep his Veyla safe.  He wondered if he'd ever see her face again.

_Bleeding, I’ll die and I can’t, not yet, he isn’t safe.  Got to…move…_

He felt shy fingers rough the stubble on his sunken cheek, and somewhere found the spare air for a chuckle and to speak.

“Pretty scratchy, huh?”

He could _hear_ the sheepish grin.  It helped his hopeless eyes find opening, helped him brace gloved hands against the ground and shove his trembling back away from pulling earth.  The child slid weightless to his lap, and Cole took a minute to look him over. 

Not injured, though his rough-spun sleeping gown was smeared with blood from being borne by such a gore-slicked killer.  His blushing face was clean; the diligent mabari pup made quick work of keeping plump cheeks tidy. 

Enticed in spite of all by little toes, Cole couldn’t help but reach and pinch.  Though the boy still looked afraid of life, he giggled as he jerked his foot away and curled into a ball of sweetest innocence against Cole’s aching chest.  The squirming pup made a groaning sound that pups will make, probably quite done with being clutched.

He brushed the boy’s mist-dampened hair off of his forehead as he stared in awestruck silence.  He’d fought and killed for _months,_ obscure and gradual pushing for a cause, always vict'ry, rarely too much cost. 

Never had it been so plain and clear for him; tonight, he stood and _lost_ with those who would and _did_ give all for sake of saving.  Every inch of him alive with untold scores of fallen hearts, Cole was more in love with this dear child than he’d ever been with anything.  Complete annihilation sobbing in his soul gave reverent pause as Cole planted his cracked lips against that tiny forehead with a kiss.  He left them there for whispering, tears swelled to rim his bloodshot eyes. 

 _“Da’enasal._ Will you ever understand how precious you are?”

No answer, and none needed.  He cupped the child’s head against him as his eyes rolled with fatigue along the jagged crest.  And there it was, as he expected – a trampled muddy circle, rope hanging o’er bluffside from a post.  A brilliant vantage, given what they had to work with in these woods; pursuers could be filled with arrows on the wall. 

Though no stranger to rappelling, his condition made the task weigh dreadful on his numbing mind.  He looked down on boy and pup with a weary smile as his free hand set to unbuckling the holster that criss-crossed his back and chest.  He leaned down close to be heard over the roaring falls.

“ _Da’enasal,_ you scared of heights?”

Eyes wide as mugs of chocolate in the moonlight, a hesitant shaking of his head sent eartips tracing.  Sheaths clinked to the ground as Cole emptied his hands to take the grunting puppy from the boy.

 _“Nahhh,_ I didn’t think so.  Here, I’ll give him right back. Time to climb, little man.  Saddle up.”

He guided the child to move behind him, felt a nimble hopping as arms folded at his throat and sharp knees squeezed his ribs.  His lips and brow went scrunching as he suppressed a sound of pain, fastening his sheaths around the boy.  A soft whine of discomfort found his ear, and only then did he trust the straps as tight enough.

He passed the boy his dog and found his legs, checking fastness with jiggling hips and jerking straps.  He guided dainty fingers to grip the makeshift harness at his chest, saving on the tax of being choked.

 _Oh,_ his steps were shaky, vision blurring, nauseous static screaming in his ears, a death-like tired the likes of which he’d never thought to feel.  He slapped himself across the face, much to the gasping child’s alarm, clinging desperately to consciousness as he bent to pluck the rope from muddy ground.  He fed it winding ‘cross his chest in an S from groin to shoulder, hazarding a glance to know the distance he must go.  He found no comfort in the scum-slicked craggy wall that faded into misty depths unmeasured.

The rope came taut against Cole’s body when he turned, leaning weightless on the edge of the abyss.  His words were faint with tired, though his leathered grip was hard and sure.

“You ready, little man?  Can you be tough for me?”

Forgetting arms came back around his throat then, squeezing fierce with a determined grunt.  Cole left the choking hold alone, for what was one more slight discomfort if it meant the child felt safer?

And so, pup tucked tight under the boy’s chin, the three began their slippery descent.  Cole’s half-dead mind knew he was destined for a stumbling, knee-cracking, _awful_ fucking time, but he refused to fail. 

In his fatigue, he hoped those innocent brown eyes were closed.  Before their sinking faces, every twig that made his wooded world was crisped and burned and dead.

\---

_“Oh gods – It’s **Cole!** He found Pola! He has **Pola!”**_

Even as he hit the ground face-first and became a human puddle, her voice and pounding footfalls were music to his fading ears.  He was _sure_ she whispered when she screamed his name over and over, jerking wildly at the buckles on his chest to free him of his burdens and strip him of his tattered clothes.   A mother’s desperate wail, another voice, a man he knew, not Solas…he could not recall.  Cloying liquid in his throat set his lung afire with coughing, a thousand hands rushing on his body like a bad dream full of snatching, clawing death.

A _fire_ in his nose and through his face then, it set him gasping as his eyes snapped open and his fingers gripped the yielding furs that wrapped him now with softness.  Daylight?  His chest heaved, he felt sicker than the day he’d tried those meatballs, but his pains were gone. 

The leaves above his face were…silver. The sun shone through them, sparkling rainbows in his eyes like brilliant crystal.  Pale lashes fluttered, blue eyes struggled to parse bright white reaching branches, the tallest tree he’d ever seen. Though t’was winter, the dappled sun upon his face was warm, the breeze was sweet.

_Am I…? Is this…_

He tried to give himself a voice; it worked, though he was hoarse.  “Am I dead?”

His heart soared with elated panic at her giggle ‘bove his head, and he scrambled dumbly to his hands and knees to find her, _rushing_ her, gripping at her cheeks as he devoured her precious olive eyes.  He found them tainted with such doleful sadness that he knew he **was** alive, and all the killing hells he’d seen her people suffer through were real.

Even with the catastrophic loss that colored every cell of her, his conduct made her giggle all the more.  He kissed her for it, bore her to the ground in loving rapture.  He hugged her to his pale bare chest a sole survivor in the wake of utter desolation, rapt with naught but urgent drive to love while fleeting life is his.  He sobbed her name into her mouth and clenched her hair too tightly. _Oh,_ he _thrilled_ to feel requited loving in her clutching at his scar-raked back, her ankles crossing cutely at his tailbone. 

But then she stopped him, gently.  One hand found his face and guided his cheek back, and he complied.  A tear splashed on her forehead as he smiled speechless down at her, his handsome scruffy face a’glow with joy.

She was smiling, too, and giggling still between her words, her sneaky finger traced his bottom lip.  She whispered with great secrecy, eyes flitting playful to the side and back again.  “I missed you _so_ much, I couldn’t wait three more _stupid_ days!  We can’t let Solas see, he’ll be so angry!”

His fingers roamed her cherished face as she whispered up at him, and he could hardly listen in his rapture.  “Veyla, _oh Veyla,_ you’re so _beautiful_.  I love you _so_ much, I’m so…” Tears came harder then, his brows quaked on his face as his trembling smile grew tight.  _“I’m so happy you’re okay.”_

And he fell to kissing her again, his furry blanket sliding from his back as he moved to lay with her, their bodies leaving imprints in the vibrant new-grown grass.

She broke his kiss _again,_ tears now shining in her eyes.  They nuzzled noses, and she mewled as she squeezed his face into her chest, fingers in his stringy yellow hair.  “I thought they killed you, too. I just _knew_ they did. And when you _fell..._ the  _sound..._ ”  A painful tightness in her throat then, and her eyes darted once more to scan for punishment. 

“I’m not _kidding,_ you know.  If he finds us like this, he’ll be so mad he’ll grow his hair and lose it all again.” 

And she pecked his cheek and stood from him, leaving him to sit alone in his smallclothes – Oh.  He pulled his blanket up against his stomach as he cleared his throat. He watched her cheeks go rosy. It made him grin and blush right back. 

She looked down at her twiddling toes, folding her arms across her chest.  “I saw you fight, Cole.  You’re _fantastic_.  I wish my brother could’ve seen.”

His smile went gentle in response, his eyes leaving her to roam the seeming endless woods.  Her comment brought his memories blossoming to sobering effect.

“That little boy.  Is he…?”

“Pola. I can hardly keep him off you!  He jabbers in your face so much I don't know how you sleep through it.  He brought you these.  His mother is in love with you.  Our whole _clan_ is in love with you.”  Her toe prodded at a sloppy but impressive line of milky pebbles in the grass.

His tongue was touched to speak the little treasure's name.  “ _Pola_ …I can’t believe it. He was such a quiet little guy.”  He smiled as he plucked up one of Pola's offerings, turning it in calloused fingers.

“Veyla…Where _are_ we?”  He looked past the stone up at her, and watched her grinning lips quirk cocky with exclusive information.

“It’s called _Namadahlan.”_

He searched his Elvish vocabulary and came up short.  He rose to his feet, holding furs around his waist, and gave one more puzzled stare into the stretching leagues of bleach-white trunks and perfect grass.  “I don’t…understand.  What _is_  this place?  Are we in the Fade?”

She snaked her arm around his furry hips and hugged her cheek against his arm, and he responded in kind as she sniffed with smug mystique.

“Nope, it's real.  It’s Miss Una’s birthday present.”


	48. Grief

She wished she didn’t recognize this razed and blighted wood. In spite of all, she did. Too numb to wretch, too numb to medicate depleted strength. She went on soles of powdered coal into the parting midst of soldiers idling anxious in the first light of a joyless sun.

There was no war to fight. There were no words to speak. Her Keeper’s corpse lay flayed in filth before her feet, and she could only stand and see.

A woman’s gloating voice, somewhere ahead. “Fallen First of Lavellan. With the breaking dawn, the Elder One began to doubt. We never dreamed you’d be so _slow.”_

In this, her people only watched. If Una had companions at her back, she did not know them. There was no love, no legion here, no jeering threat mere feet away. Grief filtered all save soot and grisly carnage.

Her army yielded to her advancing trance like loose soil before a plow. She came to know the devil’s telling of the last stand of her kin, remains arranged posthumous for displeasure as her near-mother’s corpse had been. Exacting butchers kept each tattooed face intact, and only that. Not one Venatori helmet glinted in the sprawling gore to tell impartial truth.

A barrage of roiling flames straight for Una’s face. Her soldiers flinched, some rushed, but she did not respond. Between lover and foreign friend, the threat was harmless, blocked and gone. Dorian pressed lyrium in her unfeeling palm, guiding her fingers to grip. It was Varric’s heavy hand that found her back and gave her voice. In monotone, she spoke to stay the soldiers rushing to her aid. Still, her eyes knew nothing of the woman hurling threats.

“Stay back from her, my noble ones. I would not risk your lives when there’s no need. Keep your guard. What army she has left may return upon her death, and Corypheus will come.”

The men and women of her force stood puzzled at their leader’s words, watching as the casters in her retinue stepped forward at the slightest bob of Una’s chin. She kept her heartsick vantage as they moved away to kill for her, eyes stuck in the grotesqueness ‘neath their feet.

She swigged the bottle in her grasp, heedless of the nausea it summoned in her guts. She came aware that Varric’s hand remained upon her back. Though Corypheus’ wretch screamed curses and deadly premonitions designed especially for her, his mournful voice was all she heard.

“Goldy. Look at me.”

She did. For the first time in what felt like endless death, she tore her eyes away from trampled corpses she’d unwittingly betrayed. Determined friendship in his amber eyes held her warped attention. His gaze was softer than his words.

“Good. Now listen. They did this to get to you, and it’s working. _You’re_ standing here in shock, _he’s_ gloating in the shadows like a sodding cutpurse. _Knock it off._ We’ll all talk about how terrible this is **after** we beat his ass. If you look down again, I’ll put a bolt up your pretty backside.”

A nod was all she gave and all he needed. She squeezed his shoulder before she walked away, and she did not look back down.

Three magic users made quick work of one, though Agruin was strong. Morrigan spoke out from bending o’er Agruin’s carcass as the Inquisitor approached. “Inquisitor, she was possessed. She holds a stone, identical to what you used to bring us here.”

**_“Your people sought to betray you, imposter, and in doing so betrayed themselves. Pathetic. You will join them soon, for I will suffer your meddling no longer.”_ **


	49. The Rise of Fen'Namas

Dragons warring overhead, that small section of her army watching, shouting from below the floating island where four toiled to save the world. Not one sarcastic quip, all of them too tight-jawed with their work to answer the enemy's baiting, gloating threats. A frustrated snarl as Solas sent yet another barrier shimmering o’er the Inquisitor who stood feet before the demigod, blaring magicks sloppy and relentless.

It took his undivided attention to keep his reckless charge alive. This was _not_ how he had pictured it; his wise and knowing mind began to doubt. She spent herself in heedless rage, her aura fanned by pure adrenaline and spending force of mortal life, a dangerous expenditure that no mage could reclaim. Though she dealt the Elder One much damage, her tactics threw the seasoned team askew; even now, Dorian was gritting teeth off to the left as he sought to rouse the dwarf. Fen'Harel could see their loss unfolding like pages rushing in a book.

All hopes he had for reasoning with Una lay trampled with the Dalish in the blighted dirt below. His only chance to salvage Thedas was to reclaim the orb, to put the artifacts to use; no time for rueful wishing after Cole’s flashing skills, after elegant plans gone awry.

Eyes darted calculations high in risk, he slung his staff against his back to free his hands. Her onslaught _was_ demanding their adversary’s undivided attention. Without another thought, he dug bare toes through powdered ash and ran.

Their field was wide, the way was far; in seconds ticking by with pounding feet he knew he was not fast or small enough to make this pass before the devil without snagging. His heart sank sickened with the sacrifice of secrets as his staff and clothing fell away with fleeting change, a form he’d guarded close through untold ages rushing now on four swift paws, white coat impervious to soot.

He lunged for the floating thing in Corypheus’s clutches just as Una drove an aural impact home, and all three of them went spilling to the ground. He had it. Their enemy was screaming rage that shook the air like water, and his lover was too spent to move.

Fen’Harel became his naked self again, and he shoved the hard-won center of his power in her limp unanchored palm as he pressed her body ‘gainst the ground. He glimpsed her favor glinting on his wrist and surged with loving guilt. He curled his fingers twixt her own from behind, turning up her anchored hand to point at the advancing monster with a yell.

_“Arrogant wretch! You know **nothing** of the tool you wield! **Dirthara ma!”**_

Diluvial and huge, a flood of power more than only his, rays the color of his aura pulling energy through the conducting artifacts that peppered Southern Thedas, _worlds_ of force channeling through the orb, to _her_. Soldiers rendered helpless by their leader's distance could only stand and watch the blaring streams of light that stretched like ropes from all horizons, converging at the apex of war. They could not see her, but their leader shone now with more fire than Mythal’s jealous sun that grumbled in the east.

He squeezed her helpless hand as boundless energy went green in casting through the Mark; it took all his godly strength to hold his lover fast against the kick of it. Even as he watched the blast obliterate Corypheus to less than floating ash, he felt it break her fingers, he felt her mortal body dying beneath him and bathed her matted hair in anguished screams.

The thing was done, and all was silent. The orb rolled away from them hot as stoking coals, the fingers of their right hands equally raw and burned. He dropped the deadened anchor and turned her broken body over in the charring dust. Her hair, her clothes, her skin – every inch of her was black as night. Her limp neck let her head fall sickly to the side, and then he knew.

Varric and Dorian were at his side in an instant, beyond bewildered. Dorian was jerking Solas by the shoulder, Varric's gloved hands grabbed the orb with rushing and a yell. “No time for modesty, Chuckles! Pick her _up,_ we’ve got to _move!"_

The crumbling island lurched beneath him as he stood and plucked her lifeless body from the ground. Dorian glimpsed her lolling head as he rushed behind the naked elf and called, “Show her to me!” His hand found her forehead, even as they ran to mount the screeching dragon waiting on the field.

Morrigan spoke true before – she could _not_ carry all of them, especially in her battle weakened state. Still, a stumbling fall to earth upon a solid beast was better than on crumbling ground. They spilled together, earning bruises and cracked ribs, and the witch became herself. She rushed on Solas, even as Dorian was scrambling to Una’s side.

_“I saw you! I know what you are!”_

He ignored her, kneeling over Una’s broken body with his knees against her hips even as Dorian’s countenance grew dark. Solas slapped the other mage’s hand away, digging ‘neath the collar of her robes with urgency.

Dorian’s was the voice of disbelief before an audience of scores. “She’s dead. I don’t know what you did up there, Solas, but it killed her.”

Solas spoke through clenching teeth, eyes determined, face devoid of tears. “It _wouldn’t_ have, if she’d _listened_ to me. Give me space.” He found what he was looking for then, and jerked his tooth away from her neck. His indestructible golden filament yielded to his will with a _snap!_

"Wait - who's the necromancer, here? What  _exactly_  are you doing, Solas? MOVE!"

 _“Stop him!_ Don’t you _see!?_ He is the Dread Wolf, all of this is _him!_ It’s _him!”_

He heard armor shifting, heard Bianca cocking, felt Dorian grab roughly at his elbow with intent to heave him back. Though he’d spent so much, the barrier that repelled them all came effortless and sure; only Mythal herself could stop him now.

With her legion feet away and hating at his naked back, Fen’Harel knelt o’er his fallen love. He hesitated, pausing on a memory as he touched her lifeless face.

_“What will you do with the power of the well once Corypheus is dead?”_

_“The war proved that we can’t go back to the way things were. I’ll try to help this world move forward.”_

_“You would risk **everything** you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t? What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is **worse** than what was?”_

_“I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again.”_

_“…Just like that?”_

**_“If we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right.”_ **

His loving heart had watched her helpless since arrival in this defeated place. Knowing there was nothing he could do or say to bring her comfort as she looked upon her slaughtered kin, knowing he could never ask forgiveness. He knew the pain that dwelt in her more than any elf who’d ever lived. In turn he knew that what he meant to do, bringing her back here to live forever, was cruelty beyond belief. 

She would suffer in the now, for the spell he crafted in his mind would rack her mortal soul to torturous death and back again a hundred times.  She would suffer for eternity as well, walking always ‘neath the weight of her mistakes.  And through it all, the woman who for two days loved him dear would now spend endless lifetimes hating wicked Fen’Harel more than anyone had ever hated anything before. 

He wanted _none_ of this.  Still, her words rang in his mind beside Varric's insistent teachings on the virtues of life lived in spite of suffering, and he knew he had no choice.

He squinted then, and took a breath, and whispered short and tight.  “You can give this world what I cannot.  Wake up, _vhenan_. Take your breath, and try your hand again.”

He yanked the hidden blade from his lover’s belt and slashed his palm, Elvhen life force pooling ‘round the ancient trinket in his dirty, cupping hand. It trickled down his wrist, catching in the dainty braid that twisted there.

 _“What are you doing!  Chuckles, **no!** She wouldn’t want this!” _The dwarf was banging on the barrier, though it must surely shock his body to the core.  The mages tried the barrier and knew the thing for what it was; hopeless, they stood mortified to watch the torture through a god’s shimmering will.

His free hand pulled her chin to part her lips, his blood filled her mouth and throat, a pulse of magic sent tooth and all into her once-aching belly.  He slid his blood-slicked fingers in to catch her tongue, lest she bite it in the throes to come.  His free hand left her face to hold her shoulder on the ground, and he squeezed her tight between his knees and waited with his placid gaze upon her face.

The rise of Fen’Namas was not a graceful thing to see; no choirs for her, no dancing nymphs to herald her ascent with lilting verse, no songbirds trailing colored ribbons in the air.  She writhed to life with gurgling screams in clinging ash that once was home, her fingernails snapping with the clawing force of pain against the earth.  As her back arched with convulsions beneath a naked god, a crowd of hundreds watched her suffering with cries of grief and helpless tears.

As dreadful as her agonizing screams had been, in changing they were _worse._ She was a golden beast beneath him now, thrashing tangled in her clothes.  Her feral yelping cries were _deafening_.  Snapping teeth took the Dread Wolf’s middle finger quicker than he could withdraw.  

He clamped his now four-fingered hand o'er her muzzle to press the seizing wolf against the ground, his blood staining her fur.  She was a force of nature now. Fangs found his thigh ‘fore he could move it, and her bucking pain would not be kept aground.  Unable to restrain her, the swift god withdrew and pressed his back against the magic wall.  She did not follow, only writhed and cried alone for minutes stretching into fives and tens.

\---

A stillness then, a woman once again, curled up naked on her side atop of tangled clothes.  She rose flinching to her hands and looked at him, blind and deaf to scores of screaming, pleading friends.  Her voice was slow, her eyes confused. Her brain ached with passing pain.

“Solas.  Did we-…Is he dead? What happened to your hand?”

She found his voice guarded, his face shrouded in that self-hate that only she could recognize.  “You defeated Corypheus, Inquisitor, but at great cost.  I lost my finger resurrecting you. I was careless, and you were in great pain.”

“I died? The pain…that wasn’t him?”

“No.  The pain you felt was not of his design, but mine.  I apologize, _vhenan._ I knew no other way.”

She looked past Solas then and saw the barrier, and saw Varric _banging, yelling,_ tears on his face as he made begging eye contact with her.  Confusion melted into dread as she beheld her desperate friend.

She found her feet; she was not weak. Though naked and very much in need of bathing, she felt unharmed.  The loss of her people came flooding home then, and it washed her soul in grief.  Her hand found her chest, that _heaviness_ the likes of which she’d never felt, every heartbreak she had known mere paper fantasy compared to _this_.  Her gaze darted to him once again, and she was afraid.

“Wh...What have you _done_ to me? Why are they all so frightened of us?”

She watched him staunch his bleeding hand with magic, his eyes never leaving her own.  “I’ve made a god of you, Inquisitor. They are not afraid of ‘us’. They are afraid of me.”

Fear left as quickly as it came.  The pieces fell to place then, and she knew why he was naked. “Oh, _Solas…_ ”

And she rushed him, and she hugged his naked body to her own, pressing her face into his neck.  Varric’s pounding stopped, and Solas wore a face of disbelief as he heard her whisper ‘neath his ear.

“If I knew you could do this, I would have asked you days ago. I will help them love you, _ma vhenan,_ and we will try and try again until we get it right. It is best they know the truth of you, for you are not as wicked as you think.”

Numb with shock, his marred hands found her hips and eased her back.  Blue eyes stared down in quaking disbelief, and only now did they dare line with tears.

She smiled up at him, her thumb tracing his speechless bottom lip.  “There are no words for how handsome you are, Fen’Harel.  But that is not why I forgive you.”

He sank to his knees in the soot before her, sliding arms around her thighs as he pressed his tear-streaked cheek against her belly with a whisper.  _“Fen’Namas.”_

Her fingers twiddled at his eartip, running behind his head for all to see. Her voice was light as though nothing much had happened.

“Mmm. Mercy Wolf? Is that what you’ll call me now, _vhenan?_ Suit yourself. Come now, wear my underrobe, and let us address our friends. Your Elvhen glory is giving Dorian a nosebleed.”

And she moved from him, and tossed him robes a size too small, and donned her leather corsetlet o’er naked flesh.  Her heart was heavy with the loss of her kin, and yes, she blamed herself, she always would, and it would haunt her dreams for never ending life. 

But Fen’Harel had given her a chance to set things right, and she was all too eager to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That has it for The Rise of Fen'Namas, faithful readers. Thank you _so much_ for your tireless readership through my long and rambling fic.
> 
> I will begin posting the direct sequel in the coming days. I encourage you, if interested, to [subscribe to my username](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrakana) so you can catch the update when it comes!


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